


The Last Tribute

by FernWithy



Series: End of the World [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 119,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2101107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernWithy/pseuds/FernWithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-four years after winning his Games, Haymitch Abernathy is deeply embroiled in the rebellion, his relationship with Effie Trinket has deteriorated badly, and he has lost whatever marginal control he had over alcohol.  When Katniss Everdeen volunteers for District Twelve, he realizes that he needs to straighten out, because he might just have a victor on his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After returning from a meeting with fellow rebels, Haymitch expects no surprises at the reaping for the 74th Games -- right up until a volunteer steps forward.

**Part One: Volunteer**

  
  
**Chapter One**  
I wake up buried in angora sweaters.  
  
For a minute, I'm confused about where I am and why I'm here. I was having a dream about the arena, huddled under the blanket with Maysilee Donner. I reach for her sleepily -- and drunkenly, let's not forget that -- then remember that she's not here. She hasn't been here for twenty-four years. She's been dead considerably longer than she was alive.  
  
I am in a trunk full of sweaters from Cinna's fall line, and the gentle rocking of the train tells me that it's still pretty early. As they decelerate in the approach to Twelve, there's a paradoxically more pronounced sense of motion. My knife is gripped tightly in my right hand, and I've managed not to cut anything with it. (I have many sheets and blankets that bear the marks of learning to sleep armed.) There's plastic under me so that no one will be able to tell that I slept on top of the sweaters, but six of them are my blanket. They're all sized for a girl much larger than any District Twelve girl will ever be. I can fold them up and put them at the bottom of the pile, with the plastic carefully stretched back over the top. They won't be used, so Cinna will just take them back with the rest of the unused sizes, wash them, and put them in his boutique.  
  
There's carving on the side of the trunk -- Cinna's label, cut through the wood. Air holes. I can't see much through them, but there's a view of the door. I moved one of the mannequins in front of it before I went to sleep, making it look like it was accidentally shoved by a rolling wardrobe rack. Anyone coming in would have had to move both -- setting off a pile of clattering hangers I placed precariously on the top shelf of the rack -- and I doubt anyone would think to put it back. It's still there. I suppose it's possible that someone is lying in wait, but I think anyone suspecting that the wardrobe car is occupied is likely to come in with guns and drag me out. I wouldn't be wondering.  
  
I put my knife away and reach into my pocket and pull out a little magnet contraption that Wiress made. It pops latches closed from the inside, and if I reverse its polarity with her little switch, will hopefully pop them open as well. Beetee's used it, anyway. I flip the switch and hope for the best.  
  
It takes long enough that I'm starting to come up with bad excuses for Peacekeepers who ask how I got in here, but finally, I hear the little click of the metal letting go. I push the top up and climb out. I'm not as drunk as I was when I boarded back at the fueling station, where one of our District Six spies got me on board and hid me here, but I'm still a little unsteady, and my stomach is going to need settling pretty soon. I fold up the sweaters carefully and put them at the bottom of the trunk. the plastic is wrinkled, but I don't seem to have soiled anything in my sleep, which is a wonder.  
  
I leave the top open to air it out, and go to the narrow windows. We're definitely in Appalachia now, but that's not surprising. The fuel station is just south of where the mountains start to give way to the red earth around District Eleven. We were probably in the mountains before I even dropped off to sleep. But I can see the river peeking out through the trees, the one that leads up toward Twelve. Maybe closer than I thought, then. It's hard to tell. I usually take freight trains for these things. This is the first time I've actually hopped the tribute train.  
  
It was the only choice. Finnick's schedule was tight. They watch him more closely than they watch me and Chaff. Mags could cover for him for a couple of days, but that meant waiting for an empty cargo train heading up to Twelve to pick up coal. Chaff could join him in Eleven, and I could catch the loaded train down to the fueling station. Finnick and Chaff caught a second coal train back -- luckily, everything goes through Eleven and then on to the Rotation, so Finnick could get some other cargo train home -- but the only thing left going to Twelve before the Reaping was the tribute train. I had to wait in the woods for a day and a half for it. Luckily, Chaff brought me a couple of bottles of brandy that he distilled from his peach trees, and, as it turns out, I'm still capable of killing a squirrel or two, though they aren't resting very peacefully in my gut. There was no luck involved in remembering to bring a paperback. I got stuck for three days outside District Eight once, and I was bored out of my mind. I haven't traveled without one since.  
  
I'm not even sure we _needed_ to meet. They wanted to check on Cinna's status, and talk again about the many ways it could backfire if we start trying to use the Games before Plutarch is ready. I'm tired of waiting for Plutarch to be ready. I want Snow to realize that we _can_ touch the Capitol. Maybe it's crazy. Maybe Chaff's right, and no one will care if I can make them love two tributes. But there's nothing to lose. My plan, worked out with Cinna this winter when he ostensibly came to "say hello" to his new team leader, is to visually and narratively pair my tributes. Make it impossible for the audience to see one without the other. Make them choose between two kids when neither deserves to die, the way every mentor has to make sadistic choices. Chaff says they won't care. Finnick isn't sure.  
  
I'm sure they'll care. Whether or not it will make a difference is a different question. I don't think Snow can brainwash hundreds of people at once, but he may have methods I don't know about to control a fractious Capitol population.  
  
And of course, there's the matter of the tributes. If I get a pair of Career-wannabes, I doubt they'll put up with it, and I'll back their play. I'm a mentor before I'm a rebel, much to Plutarch's annoyance.  
  
Nothing we talked about really couldn't wait for the Games.  
  
But, like Finnick says, scratch a victor, find a thrill-seeker. Why just risk getting caught and questioned by Games Security in the Capitol when you can risk being caught in the out-districts by Peacekeepers who've had the go-ahead to shoot on sight since the raider attack? (Of course, they've more or less wiped out the bands of raiders entirely, but once they've been given an okay to kill, they're not going to let go of it.)  
  
"Let's face it," he said as we huddled around our little fire three nights ago. "Once you've been in the arena, it's just not as thrilling when the other guy _isn't_ trying to kill you."  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Thrilling."  
  
"Yeah, thrilling."  
  
"Right," Chaff said. "I lay awake nights thinking, 'How can I be as excited as I was in the arena?'"  
  
Finnick shrugged. "Tell me you weren't more alive when they were trying to kill you than you are now."  
  
Neither Chaff nor I bothered to answer that. Finnick, at least, has a life after the arena, albeit one that's not exactly ideal. He's got things to look forward to. When the Capitol gets bored with him, he plans to marry Annie and have a family. Chaff and I pretty much plan to drink until we pass out for good. Even when I was as young as Finnick, I knew that the Capitol would never be bored enough with me to risk having a family, given what they did to the one I used to have.  
  
We spent most of the night talking. We didn't even reach a conclusion. Plutarch has been making noises since Johanna's Games about a potential ally, but he hasn't gotten anything finalized, and won't talk until he does. He says that he picked up a weak signal while he was with Johanna in isolation -- something on a radio frequency that didn't belong there. He's holding it back like a tasty Games surprise, despite repeated reminders that we are his allies, not his audience. The only thing _I_ can think of is District Thirteen. We've narrowed Johanna's stop to the islands in the North Atlantic, and that's not terribly far from where it used to be. But Twelve is even closer -- we've never heard a peep, or had mysterious visitors from the supposedly irradiated north.  
  
I dismissed the idea out of hand at first, because everyone knows that Thirteen is dead. Then I started thinking about that radiation. All my life, it was a ghost story told around smoky campfires. If you go north, you'll get radiation sickness. People wandered out of the ruins of Thirteen having grown extra limbs and turned strange colors. But _no one_ ever saw such a thing. No one ever ventured there and came back, even among the wilder daredevils of District Twelve. If anyone tried to get there, they never came back… which could mean that they died in the woods, or that someone was there to meet them.  
  
If it _is_ Thirteen, then it goes beyond a loose alliance. Thirteen, if it's not destroyed, has actual weapons. It means that, instead of an uprising, there could be a war.  
  
I'm not sure how I feel about that, especially since our last potential allies turned out to be complete lunatics. No one blames Blight for thinking of the out-district raiders -- I'm sure we all thought about them a few times -- but we don't invite him into our councils anymore, either. It may not be logical, but I can't forget them threatening Effie and my tributes, and Finnick will _never_ forgive them for scaring Annie before the Games. Blight's all tied up in that, and I guess, between that and his drifting away on his own, we can't really trust him anymore.  
  
I look out the window for a few more minutes, watching the brown, wooded mountains go by. It's pretty, but monotonous. It's also exposed, if anyone chooses to wander in. I go back among the hanging wardrobe bags and pull out my book. It's a ridiculous, fully-approved-by-the-Capitol book, with a detective who works the bad side of the city and her plucky sidekick, a kid of uncertain origin who seems to know his way around pretty well. They've had sixteen adventures, and I've read them all, to my great shame (and Finnick's unending teasing).  
  
I'm trying to figure out where the kid came from. I'm guessing he's one of the secret District kids that used to be so ubiquitous in Capitol fiction -- he has all the usual markers -- but someone in the Culture Authority has obviously been trying to stamp the type out, so the author seems to be settling on these little codes (a weird accent, an inability to understand Capitol society, and a certain willingness to settle problems violently). She'll have to eventually think of something else, though, or they won't publish it. I'm toying with the idea that he's really a rich boy whose parents disgust him, but I'm not sure even that much rebellion would be allowed. The current mystery involves a stolen statue and a society matron. I suspect the Gamemakers, but then, I always do. In the book world, I've got it down to either the restaurant owner who has a side business in scrap metal to be melted for ammunition, or the artist who thinks it was stolen from him in the first place.  
  
I've been reading for about half an hour when the door opens, and I draw back into the shadows. Effie Trinket comes in. She's got her face painted white, and she's wearing a bright pink wig. She moves across the car with the quick, determined steps that I've learned to associate with a particularly recent dose of whatever they've had her on. I can't hate her. I also can't stand looking at her like this.  
  
She moves aside my mannequin and wardrobe rack and examines the boy tributes' potential outfits. She doesn't look impressed. Cinna is far too low key for Effie personally, though she seems at least interested in what he'll do with the parade costumes. He's kept the same prep teams, though, and Effie wrote to me that they like him. That means something.  
  
She bites her lip and looks at a moss green sweater. It looks like Cinna has planned for Seam coloring, which is usually smart.  
  
She moves on to the girls' outfits -- dresses, skirts, big thick sweaters. She pauses at the open trunk, and I think she sniffs the air a little bit, but if there's one advantage to what they've done to her, it's that she's ultimately incurious about things. She takes whatever she sees as a matter of course.  
  
She stares at the trunk, then closes it and leaves the car.  
  
I hate the Capitol.  
  
I can't get back into my book after she leaves, so I open up Chaff's brandy again. It's very sweet, and it goes down warm.  
  
The train starts decelerating ten minutes later, and twenty minutes after that, we come to a stop in District Twelve. This is the tricky part. I have to somehow get off and be wandering in from Victors' Village before the reaping starts.  
  
On the cargo trains, this is easy. I could be shipped. A spy from Six could unload me. But there's no cargo coming off of this train. There are no floor panels to left up and escape along the track. The only exits are the proper doors, and beyond them, the Peacekeepers are guarding the road to town for the Games production crew.  
  
I'll have to find a way to move along the fence.  
  
I'm starting to regret the most recent brandy. My brain is not coming up with any good scenarios.  
  
I manage to get out of the wardrobe car by waiting for the Peacekeepers to deploy outside, but every time I check along the length of the train, they're at the doors. I can't very well attack one with the others around, either.  
  
They finally start to get sparser as I reach the end of the train -- the observation car, with its glassed in sides. It's not as fancy as the tour train's observation car (presuming they still use the same one I was on), but it's definitely meant as a high class lounge for the trip. I have never made much use of it.  
  
I'm able to get down from the train, though there's a dangerous moment when I lose my balance (and am in danger of losing the brandy in my stomach), but I realize that there's no way I'll be able to go through the fence. It's reaping day. The electricity will be on, especially around the train station, to prevent another attack. Maybe, when I was a boy, I could have fit under it somehow, but now?  
  
I duck under the cover of the scraggly bushes that line the verge around the track.  
  
 _Think._  
  
I look toward the small gate that leads from the tracks into town. Beside it is a dilapidated old depot, not used for travelers since the Dark Days, though kids go there to do whatever they feel a need to do away from their parents.  
  
It straddles the fence.  
  
It's kept locked on this side, of course, but there's a loose board. I used it once before, getting through from the other side. They'd see me go out on the town side, of course, but I think I can get around that.  
  
I make my way there carefully, ignoring the spins that keep trying to send me rolling down the verge. The board is still loose. The opening is barely big enough for me now -- the boy I used to be would have found it roomy indeed -- but I manage to squeeze through. I douse myself in brandy, grab a tarp from the corner, and sit down against the wall. The room seems to rock.  
  
According to my watch, it's almost two. If I don't get to the platform soon, there'll be hell to pay.  
  
I realize that the brandy isn't going to stay down, and I guess vomiting is as good an announcement as any. I open the door of the depot, lean over the railing, and retch into the bushes.  
  
"There he is!" a Peacekeeper calls. "Abernathy! What the hell are you doing there?"  
  
I stand up and put a little more sway than I really feel into my walk. "Officer? Aren't I s'posed to be here? Isn't it time to leave? I got in a little early. Didn't want to be late for the train!" I lean on his shoulder. "I figured I'd do my drinking here, instead of at home. Save some time."  
  
He shoves me off. "You're disgusting. And you know perfectly well that you have to go to the reaping first."  
  
I am manhandled along the road to town. People gape at me as they lead me along the streets where latecomers have to watch the reaping on the screen. Sae, set up as usual in her squat near the hob, gives me a frustrated look.  
  
The Peacekeepers shove me.  
  
"Hey!" I shout as we get to the stairs that lead to the stage. "You don't have to do that, I can get there!" I can see Merle Undersee up there already, giving District Twelve's proud history of victors. Duronda and me. A drunk and a suicide. It's no wonder we're so well-loved. The world spins around me.  
  
"You're already late," the Peacekeeper says. "Bad enough you look like a bum and smell like a day old turd. You can at least manage to move faster to the one job you have to do in a year for your salary."  
  
"What do you know about what I get paid for?" I yell. "I'm paid because I'm a victor. It's all _back pay_. I -- "  
  
I am shoved out on to the stage, and very legitimately lose my balance. Effie looks up at me, dismayed. She always looks dismayed now. She didn't used to. She used to think I was wonderful. I remember that. She kissed me once. Maybe twice.  
  
I lean over and hug her.  
  
She pushes me away and gets me turned around and into my seat. Her wig is askew.  
  
Merle gives me an exasperated look, though he should at least know the score. He was the one who was supposed to be making sure no one knew I was gone, so at least he knows that much.  
  
And it's not like they don't know I'm a drunk.  
  
He calls Effie up front, to stand between the reaping bowls.  
  
She puts her hand on her wig to straighten it, then says, as always, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"  
  
That's a laugh. I know it's a script, and all of the escorts need to follow it. I know that Effie is very good at her job, and whatever they did to her in the Capitol, it's made her insufferably bubbly about it, which the Capitol audience loves. But District Twelve is the smallest district. Everyone's odds are worse than anywhere else. I look out at the sea of thin, hopeless faces in front of me. Who am I going to kill this time?  
  
I see the eighteen year olds in front. Strong, skinny boys who are about to go to work in the mines. Willowy girls who will be working alongside them, even though they don't look like they could lift the pickaxes. I know from experience how wrong that is, but the sponsors don't. They think our girls look weak.  
  
Danny's middle boy, Edder, is in this group. He's a town kid. He'll be broad-shouldered and blond. I don't remember much about him. Since the boys stopped needing someone to watch them while Danny and Mir bake, I've lost track of them. I see one of the merchant boys who _might_ be him. He doesn't seem to have much interest in the proceedings. Why would he? I doubt he's had to take any tesserae, while the boys beside him are most likely covering huge families.  
  
Beyond the eighteen year olds, I see the kids getting younger and younger as the crowd reaches to the back of the square. Sometimes, I've had kids called from the back. They come home in boxes the same size as anyone else's, but they're too small. Once, drunk on the train, I opened Treeza Murphy's casket. They put in a shelf under her feet so that she wouldn't slide down.  
  
"It's _such_ an honor to be back in District Twelve," Effie says. "In fifteen years as your escort, I know how very strong and brave you are!"  
  
This isn't even met with dutiful applause. There's been another round of gossip about Effie's transfer application. She jokes about it with me sometimes, though she seems not to understand when it is and isn't okay to tell a joke. She manages not to make one this time.  
  
"I just know that we'll have wonderful tributes this year, who will bring honor to the District."  
  
Again, there's no response.  
  
She smiles woodenly, then says, as always, "Ladies first!"  
  
The name she pulls is Primrose Everdeen.  
  
I know the name. I knew Glen Everdeen. He gave me information on the mines for the war chest before the accident that took two dozen miners four years ago. Glen's daughter. Ruth's daughter. Is this the one that half the district (including Mir) thought was really Danny's?  
  
If so, I can understand it, as she walks forward from the back, where she's standing with the other small children.  
  
I think of a shelf in the casket and close my eyes.  
  
This doesn't make the image go away.  
  
She has lovely, golden blond hair that she's wearing in two braids. Large blue eyes. She's dainty and fragile-looking, like Ruth. It's hard to imagine big, tough Glen as her father. But I know he is. Both of the men involved fumed to me about the situation, and insisted that there is no other possibility.  
  
I force my eyes open.  
  
She is still coming forward. Against all logic, she seems to be getting smaller.  
  
I think about my half-baked plan to use the Games to create an image. As always, any plans about the Games shatter when I see the tributes.  
  
The _kids_.  
  
This poor girl will have no chance in the arena.  
  
She holds her head high as she passes the group of sixteens, where another girl is staring at her, dumbfounded.  
  
This is the usual way.  
  
It's always the same. I try to think of some way this tiny child is going to survive, and can't think of one. There's nothing anyone can do.  
  
"PRIM!"  
  
I look up.  
  
The girl I noticed earlier runs forward, surging toward the stage. "Prim!" she screams again.  
  
The Peacekeepers grab at her and try to hold her back, but she threads between them like a fish swimming with the current. She moves easily and quickly, and with a single, clear determination.  
  
She reaches Primrose at the bottom of the stairs and drags her backward, shielding her from all of us.  
  
I sit forward, the brandy-haze lifting a little bit.  
  
There _is_ something that can be done for Primrose Everdeen. It's something that's never happened in Twelve, at least in my memory. Something that's utterly insane.  
  
"I volunteer!" the older girl gasps. "I volunteer as tribute!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch deals with the aftermath of the 74th reaping.

No one seems to register what's happened at first, except for little Primrose Everdeen, who is screaming at the top of her lungs, and has jumped onto the older girl's back. The crowd of kids are looking at each other, confused. A big boy from among the eighteens starts to make his way out.  
  
Effie looks over her shoulder at the site producer, who seems to be digging through the large Games manual. I doubt it's ever seen the light of day at a District Twelve reaping. Effie looks at me, wide-eyed, then bites her lip and turns around and says, brightly, "Lovely!" She looks at the producer briefly again, but gets nothing. She tries to improvise, but whatever skill she once had at it has been stolen from her. She lives by the Capitol's script now. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth, then we, um…" She shifts again, obviously waiting for a cue, which is not forthcoming.  
  
"What does it matter?" Merle Undersee asks dully. He looks worn out. I realize that he must know the girl. She's the same age as Madge. They must be friends. "What does it matter?" he asks again, a bit louder. "Let her come forward."  
  
"No!" Primrose screams, trying to pull her backward. "You can't go!"  
  
The volunteer says, in a voice just a little bit too controlled, "Prim, let go. LET GO."  
  
It's the sister, I realize. The older girl. The one who used to ride around on Glen's shoulders and sing at the top of her lungs.   
  
I can't reconcile that child with the young woman I see now. Her face isn't hard, but it's closed off somehow, cold as ice. Whatever's happened to her since her father died, it's made her tough. Hard. I hope it hasn't made her brittle. Hard will be good in the Games. Brittle will be fatal.  
  
The boy from the eighteens group reaches them and pulls the smaller girl away. She thrashes against him wildly. He whispers something to the volunteer then carries Primrose back into the crowd, probably back to where Ruth is waiting. He'll have to take his place among the eighteens again before the boy is called.  
  
The volunteer comes up the stairs. She is holding herself very carefully, managing to be still even as she moves. She's aware of the cameras. She's already playing to them.  
  
Effie leads her up to the center of the stage. "Well, bravo!" she says cheerfully. "That's the spirit of the Games!"  
  
Looking at the girl's carefully blank face, the stiff set of her shoulders, and the distant look in the gray eyes now seen at a huge magnification on the screens, I think Effie's never said anything truer. The spirit of the Games, indeed.  
  
Effie smiles. "What's your name?"  
  
"Katniss Everdeen," the girl says, softly but clearly.  
  
"I bet my buttons that was your sister," Effie guesses. Katniss nods. The blank look falters for a moment, but she regains her control. Effie grins more widely. "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?"  
  
I close my eyes and try to pretend that this isn't Effie. That some other person just said that, anyone other than the girl who has held the hands of my tributes and comforted them in their terror. But I can't quite do it. Somewhere, deep down, she's still Effie. That makes it worse.  
  
She turns to the audience. "Come on everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute."  
  
It doesn't even occur to me to clap. Merle doesn't clap. The gathered children don't, and neither do the adults who ring the square. I am not surprised by this. Twelve may be beaten down and sullen, but it's never been _owned_ by the Capitol. There was never a chance that they would go along with Effie's suggestion.  
  
I _am_ surprised by what happens next.  
  
I don't see where it starts, though I'm guessing it's among the older people, since it's an old-fashioned gesture. It was even old-fashioned when I was a child. Someone begins, and it grows in a wave.  
  
They touch their fingers to their lips, then raise their hands toward Katniss. I've only seen it at funerals, which the reaping is, in a way, no matter how perky Effie is about it. (And why not? In the Capitol, their funerals are called -- and treated as -- "celebrations.")  
  
I can't do it -- not unless I want this one and whoever the boy tribute ends up being to be dogged by mutts from the Cornucopia on -- but I recognize it.  
  
What this girl has done has touched the district. They are looking at her solemnly, respectfully.  
  
She could say anything right now, and they'd listen. They might even act.  
  
She carries herself like an adult, and she has taken responsibility for her sister. I'm willing to bet that she's taken responsibility for her mother as well. She looks hardened and experienced, despite her youth. She looks like she's been through the arena already in the years Glen has been gone.  
  
She looks like a victor.  
  
I remember Chaff telling me that he knew on meeting me that I "spoke victor fluently." I proved it by knocking my mentor, Albinus Drake, on his back. Katniss Everdeen may not win -- I take nothing for granted -- but in her careful and controlled face, I see the faces of my friends. I see my own face. She's already become a survivor, and in the end, that's what it means to win the Games. She's already understood what it means to fight to stay alive, and she's won the fight.   
  
She can do it, if I can get her through. And if she does, that look, the way the crowd showed her respect…  
  
I force my mind away from that. The last thing I should be thinking about -- ever -- is how I can use a tribute if she wins. The Gamemakers do enough of that for everyone, and no matter what Plutarch thinks, I'm not one of them.  
  
But still. There's power here.  
  
I look up at the screen, at her hugely magnified face. The careful control is strained now. Her eyes are going wide. She's playing the game as hard as she can, but she's as taken aback by this demonstration as I am. Her control is going to slip.  
  
I have to do something. I can't think. My head is still swimming, and trying to find a solid idea in my brain is like pawing through the filth in Danny's pigsty, searching for diamonds.  
  
Of course, that's what they expect of me. I decide I can use that.  
  
I get to my feet. The world wobbles, but that's all right. I'm a victor, and I'm moving. Therefore, the camera angles on the screens get wide enough to include me, and far enough away from Katniss Everdeen to hide the strain lines around her mouth and eyes.   
  
It's disorienting, watching myself lurch forward. I look like a bum, no question about it, and a particularly creepy one as I clamp my arm over her shoulders. Part of it is to let her lean on me. Another part is to keep upright.  
  
I have to say something. Anything. "Look at her," I say, though it's ridiculous, since no one is looking anywhere else. "Look at this one! I like her. Lots of…" I look around. My train of thought is disintegrating. When I was sitting still, I could think. Now, the crowd seems very far below us. Faces tip back and forth, and sounds have a strange reverberation, like I'm listening through the seashell Finnick brought us one year. "Lots of _spunk_ ," I finally manage, then glance at Effie, who's watching all of this with her glazed, drugged out eyes. "More than you!" The cameras are still on us, close enough to see the tremble in Katniss's lip if anyone's paying attention. I let go of her. Step between her and the camera. Point at it. Think about the audience on the other side… and the Gamemakers. And Snow. "More than _you_ ," I tell them.  
  
My foot rolls over a power cable, and I look down. It's a mistake. The crowd seems to pulsate now, growing and shrinking, swirling.  
  
I feel the blackness at the edge of my vision, then it swallows me whole. There's a brief sensation of flying, and then nothing.  
  
I wake up inside the Justice Building. Someone is shaking me roughly.  
  
"Hey," I say. "Come on. I…" I put my hand over my mouth to keep from throwing up, then I open my eyes.  
  
Danny Mellark is standing over me, his big hands clamped on my shoulders. His hair is standing up every which way, and his eyes are wild.  
  
"Wake up," he hisses.  
  
I pull myself up until I'm almost sitting on the bench under the stairs. "Danny… I fell."  
  
"I know. I saw you. All of Panem saw you."  
  
"Sorry, I --"  
  
"They took Peeta."  
  
I blink. "What?"  
  
"My youngest boy." He sits down on the bench beside me and puts his head in his hands. "You have to bring him back, Haymitch. I can't… I can't breathe…"  
  
"Danny…"  
  
"I know you're not supposed to have favorites. I love all my boys. But Jona and Eddie, they're Mir's, mostly. Peeta's _mine_." He starts weeping into his hands.   
  
It's not the first time I've had a parent weeping beside me -- there's a reason they don't film here; even the Capitol realizes that they won't get happy parents bragging to me -- but it's the first time that it's a man who was a boy I grew up with, a boy whose parents took me in more than once while I was at my worst, a boy who always treated me as human, even when I was filthy and poor and wearing shoes held together with packing string. I put my hand on his arm and don't say anything. There isn't anything to say.  
  
He manages to stop the tears, or at least slow them down. "Is this because of what I've been doing?" he asks.  
  
I look around. This isn't filmed, but it very well could be bugged. He can't very well talk here about the messages he sends among the rebels, tucked under the lining papers of lovely cakes. I shake my head. "No, Danny. I… I don't know what you did, but it's not punishment. If I don't know, then _nobody_ knows. There's no sign anyone knows anything about you."  
  
"Half the district thinks Glen's littler one was mine, and they took Peeta, too. What else could it be?" He starts crying again, more quietly this time. "He's smart. He draws. He decorates the cakes. He's strong, too." He wipes away the tears. "But they're all looking at her. I went to see her --"  
  
"You what?"  
  
He turns, blinking. "After I saw Peeta. When I said… when I said goodb…" He breathes very hard for a few seconds, but manages not to start crying again. "I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't go home. I had the cookies I always bring the tributes. I told her I'd take care of the little girl if…" He slams the heels of his hands against his forehead. "If she dies, because I want her to die. I want her to die so Peeta will come home. What am I, that I'd want that?"  
  
I put my hands on his arms and try to think through the haze. It's lifting, but it's still there. "Danny, you've sat with a lot of parents for me over the years. You know how many of them say that."  
  
"I never thought they meant it until now."  
  
"You don't mean it, either."  
  
"Yes, I do. Do you understand that? I want my son to come home."  
  
"And you don't care what that means, and that's normal. You're his father. It doesn't mean you're really wishing any of them dead, least of all Ruth's girl."  
  
He stares at his hands, looking lost, then says, "Don't listen to Peeta."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't listen to him. He wants her to live."  
  
"Danny --"  
  
"He said we should think he won, if she wins. And Mir said she has a good chance. She's letting him leave thinking that she doesn't mind if he _dies_. So he's going to try and die. Maybe she'll finally be satisfied with him." He looks at me. "Haymitch, please don't let him. Don't let my boy die."  
  
"Danny, you're my friend. But he's my tribute, and he outranks you. I have to --"  
  
"Talk him _out_ of it!" Danny stands up. "I know you, Haymitch. I saw you go up and give the girl breathing room. I know you're looking at her and thinking just what Mir said -- she's got a good chance. And if it were anyone else in there with her…"  
  
"I know."  
  
"Try to talk him out of it, Haymitch. Promise that you'll try."  
  
"I'll try," I promise. "But Danny --"  
  
"I know . I know the odds. And Peeta's… he's a good boy. He has a good heart."  
  
"And you don't think anyone with a good heart will make it through."  
  
"No. You made it through. You have a good heart. So maybe." He looks at me with a miserable kind of hope in his eyes, then starts crying again. "But I _know_ the odds, Haymitch. I'm the one you've talked to about them every year."  
  
I put my hand on the back of his neck. I don't get much more than an occasional, "My little boy" out of him until Games security comes to take me to the train. Effie is waiting in the dining car.  
  
"I've gotten them settled in their rooms to change," she says, pulling me inside. "Haymitch, you're a _disgrace._ You look like… I don't even _know_ what you look like. But you smell like gin." She wrinkles her nose. "And a lavatory."  
  
I can't think of a single counter to the accusation.  
  
"I called a Mellark boy, but I had to come straight to the train. Is he --"  
  
"Danny's youngest."  
  
"We can work that angle, anyway," she says. "The son of the boy you collected recipes for --"  
  
"Stop it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just… stop. I can't right now."  
  
"Well, you _have_ to." She looks around. "Haymitch, you have tributes!"  
  
"I have my best friend's son, and a girl who just made District Twelve love her. A boy I care about, and a girl who could _win_. So don't talk to me about angles. I can't handle it right now."  
  
I head down the train toward my sleeping quarters, a moving hotel room that Effie generally makes sure is dry, not that it does any good, given the presence of a bar car. She'll have it stocked with new clothes. She always does. There's a shower. I have no idea how that works on a train, but I've used it before. I'm rarely up to Effie's standards these days.  
  
"Haymitch, I am not finished."  
  
I turn. She's followed me most of the way through two cars. I didn't even notice. "What else is it, Effie? Am I supposed to be more cheerful?"  
  
"It wouldn't hurt their chances, but no, that's not it."  
  
I lean against the wall. The train starts to move, and I sway. "What, then?"  
  
She presses her lips together in disapproval, then says, "You've already lost two sponsors."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The stunt on the stage. Coming up there drunk, and groping me, and then lurching around like a buffoon. Egnatia Collingsworth has been crusading all year against drinking --"  
  
"And she was planning on sponsoring _me_?"  
  
"I spent most of the year convincing her that you sober up for the Games. That you're a great example of how proper medication can control the addiction. She was on the phone before the stretcher got you away."  
  
I rub my head. "And the other?"  
  
"The Daughters of the Founding."  
  
"The Daughters? But they've always been…"  
  
"Oh, a lot of members are still on our rolls, but the organization itself doesn't want to be associated with you anymore. You've become an embarrassment."  
  
I try to remind myself that the whole thing is an absurd show anyway -- they're a bunch of old Capitol biddies with a lot of ancestors and no descendants. I'm just a curiosity with a "quaint" accent to them.  
  
But the truth is, I like the old biddies, no matter how silly they can be. I don't like that I've let them down, and that's not even getting into the loss of sponsorship money, which is substantial.  
  
I shake my head. "Get me the medicine, and I'll sober up in the Capitol. I'll get them back."  
  
"You got cut off."  
  
I turn. "What?"  
  
"They changed the status of your medication. It's supposed to be monitored every week now, a check-in with a Capitol doctor. I had one lined up for you when we get in, but…"  
  
"But what?"  
  
"But it was Egnatia Collingsworth."  
  
"Just perfect." I grind my teeth. "Don't tell me that there's nowhere in the Capitol to buy medicine without the right paperwork."  
  
"There may very well be somewhere, but I wouldn't know where it is."  
  
"Of course you wouldn't." I take a few breaths, trying not to lose my temper at Effie, who actually seems to have made more effort than anyone else would.  
  
"Well, you'll have to do _something_."  
  
"I know." I look around. "Can you help me?"  
  
"How? I'm not going to get wrapped up in your life again."  
  
This has been her refrain for almost four years. They have her convinced that she was "burying herself" in me, and that I somehow expect her to continue doing so, at grave danger to her mental health. "Just for the Games," I say. "Nothing long term."  
  
She considers it. "All right."  
  
"This thing that makes my brain wrong -- I can't just stop. It makes me hallucinate. It could kill me. That's not going to help anyone. So I have to drink a little. I need you to cut me off if it looks like I'm not stopping. And don't tell the kids. They have no idea that this isn't how I always do things. They don't need to know that I'm trying to white-knuckle it when their lives are in my hands. I just need you to take the booze away from me -- subtly -- if I'm not taking care of business."  
  
"Right. I'll just duck your knife."  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
"You scare the hair off me when you're drunk sometimes."  
  
"Which is why you're not going to let me get drunk. Starting tomorrow." I look out the window. District Twelve has slipped behind us, and we're in the wilderness now. "I gave you something a long time ago. My district token. Do you still have it?"  
  
"It's somewhere in my apartment."  
  
"I want you to find it before the Games start. Wear it where I can see it."  
  
She sighs heavily. "All right. If you think it will help."  
  
"It will."  
  
She nods, looking confused, then regains her bright escort smile. "Now, we _are_ going to need to do damage control."  
  
"Not now, Effie."  
  
"But --"  
  
"I'll do it in the Capitol. Let me be for now."  
  
"You're going to drink."  
  
"Yeah. I'm going to drink. I'll sober up overnight. I'll be all right in the Capitol. It doesn't matter until then."  
  
I move away from the wall and head on down the train. I pass the tribute rooms, on either side of a wide car. They're both changing behind the screens. Katniss has dropped her blue dress on the floor, and Peeta's good suit is thrown over a chair. Peeta has a box of his father's cookies open on the dresser. It doesn't look like he's eaten any.  
  
I move past them. My compartment is across the corridor from Effie's. She's got her wardrobes organized carefully, but it still looks like a candy store exploded in there.  
  
I go into my space. As I expected, she has shopped for me. Suits, sweaters, comfortable pants, shiny shoes. All so tasteful and heavy with gravitas that it's hard to imagine they were chosen by the same woman who filled the room across the way. These are things I'm very used to these days. I look at them hanging there. Danny doesn't judge me for dressing in these things any more than he ever judged me for the clothes I wore when I was poor. Other people do, I'm sure.  
  
I think about the people of District Twelve, raising their hands to Katniss Everdeen. The cameras that were on her loved her. She may or may not have spunk -- that was a good word to use on television, not too threatening, though I have only the vaguest idea what it might mean in connection with Katniss -- but she does have _presence_. She'll command Caesar's stage, if we can just get her to realize that she's in control, and can make people see the emotions that will get them on her side.  
  
I can work with her. She speaks victor.  
  
And if she wins, Danny will lose his youngest son.  
  
I held Peeta once when he was a newborn, told him stories, fed him milk from my finger. I haven't kept up with him. I wouldn't know him from other merchant boys on sight. But he's not a stranger. I don't think you can be a stranger to someone who once fell asleep on your shoulder while you told him a story.  
  
I grab hold of one of the wardrobe racks and fling it across the car. It makes a satisfying crash against the metal, then tips over, spilling the season's finery over my bed.  
  
"Do you need help, Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
I look over my shoulder. A bellhop from District Six is looking at me curiously.  
  
"Gin," I say. "Whatever you've got a big bottle of."  
  
"Miss Trinket said not to give you gin."  
  
"I'll pay you better than she did."  
  
"Yes, sir," he says, and disappears toward the bar car.  
  
I should go see them.  
  
I should do it as soon as I get changed. Leave off the gin. If I'm going to be sober for several weeks, what's the difference between starting now and tomorrow?  
  
Maybe I'll surprise myself. I think I've done four or five weeks before without medication. It was a long time ago. It was the year I dated a tribute. Only she wasn't a tribute then; that came later.  
  
For a long, frightening moment, my mind blanks out her name. I've sworn not to forget any of them, but I can't remember who she was. Blond. Merchant's daughter. Tailor's daughter. She sewed a button on my shirt.  
  
"Violet," I say out loud. "Violet Breen. Her name was Violet."  
  
I go through my mental list of the others. There are a few more frightening temporary blanks, but eventually, I find them all.  
  
All forty-six kids I've brought to die. I make myself remember something about each of them.  
  
Somewhere in the middle of this, the gin comes.  
  
What will I remember about Katniss Everdeen, my first volunteer? What story will I tell my friend about his son's conduct in the Capitol?  
  
I drink, and recite the names backward to myself, making sure I have them.  
  
I get all the way back to the beginning, to Elmer Parton and Ginger McCullough. Wiress's year.  
  
Only that wasn't the beginning, was it? They weren't the first. The first was Gilla Callan, the poor little girl who was made happy by a day of pretending to be a Capitol model. Or Beech Berryhill, the stolid, earnest boy from the Seam who couldn't figure out how to work the shower.  
  
Or Maysilee.  
  
But I didn't mentor her. She mentored me.  
  
I sit down at my desk with the list of sponsors in front of me (two reproachfully crossed off), and try to think, but the ghosts keep at me. I drink without even really noticing it going down.  
  
I think about Nasseh Rutledge, and my disastrous attempt to communicate with him in the arena. I managed to convince Effie -- I think -- that overdosing after it was an accident, instead of an extremely calculated attempt to get out of my own arena. Poor River Boldwood, so slow and so unable to deal with what came to him. Johanna doesn't talk about her alliance with him. She doesn't mention his name. But he lives between the two of us sometimes.  
  
Mostly, I think about my friends. Danny. Ruth. And of course, they both lead me back to the Donner twins. To Maysilee, and her wild ideas about rebellion. I promised her I'd take the Capitol down. The most I've ever done is mildly irritate Snow. Oh, there are personal rebellions -- our ill-advised train trips, the forbidden books I've found floating around the Capitol's shadow side, many of which now live in the secret compartments under my floor. But we're no closer now than we were on the day I made her take off the pin that she fancied was a rebel symbol. The mockingjay that survived the Capitol's plan for extinction. I wore it to the Undersees' wedding, the day that, if anything, marked the end of District Twelve's rebellion. Maysilee would hate that.  
  
She would hate _me_.  
  
I pick up the gin bottle to refill the crystal glass beside me, and I realize that it's far too light.  
  
I've drunk my way through half. The world around me is glassy, and I feel like I'm wrapped in cotton.  
  
I stand up. My stomach lurches with the motion of the train.   
  
Too much.  
  
It's all too much.  
  
I need to stop.  
  
I grab the table for support and knock over the bottle -- that problem is solved, anyway -- and think vaguely that I'd best get somewhere that there's company, and maybe some bread. I haven't eaten solid food since the squirrels in the woods, and there's nothing in my system absorbing the gin. I try to look out the window to gauge how long I've been drinking, and I see that it's late sunset, but I can't look very long. The motion is making me sicker.  
  
I go out of my room and down the train to the dining car. I see Effie with them -- with Danny and the girl. Not Danny. Danny's boy. And the volunteer girl, Glen Everdeen's girl.  
  
I have to choose.  
  
Peeta stands up -- sort of -- when I come in and ask about dinner, and I want to say hello to him, but before I can, I see Katniss. She is dressed in a dark green top.  
  
Displayed against it, like it's flying across the forest, is Maysilee Donner's mockingjay.  
  
There's no stopping it. Everything I've drunk all day comes out of me and onto the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch reaches the bottom of his interactions with his tributes, and Peeta helps him find his way back up.

**Chapter Three**  
I barely have time to register that I've vomited before I get dizzy. I try to take a step, but it ends up in the middle of the mess, and I go down.  
  
It's not the first time I've fallen down drunk, but it's the first time I've done it in front of tributes. Instead of me helping them, suddenly, each of them has taken one of my arms to pull me up. A big part of me wants to just sit down and cry. I can't think when I've been so ashamed, and I've had plenty of opportunities to compare it to.  
  
But I won't make it worse by crying.  
  
I think I manage to come up with something about tripping. I don't know. It doesn't matter. They saw what they saw.  
  
They lug me down the train to my compartment. Inside, they pause at the bed. I try to reach for it, but they don't let me. Instead, they pull me to the tub and dump me into it. Peeta reaches up and turns on the shower. Cool water washes over me. I see them through it, prisms catching into strange sunbursts around them. I lower my head.  
  
"It's okay," Peeta says. "I'll take it from here."  
  
I try to shake my head. I can wash myself, at least. But I can't seem to look up.  
  
"All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." Katniss's voice seems far away. It's the first time I've heard her speak since she said her name. Her voice is tight with anger.  
  
"No," Peeta says. "I don't want them."  
  
I hear the door close, then Peeta starts to unbutton my shirt. I shake my head.   
  
"You have to get cleaned up," he says implacably.  
  
"I can."  
  
"No, you can't." He pulls my shirt off and tosses it aside, then pours some kind of shampoo on my head. He starts to wash my hair.  
  
Danny did this once. Only then, it wasn't my own filth he was cleaning off of me. It was something much more foul. I force myself not to think about it.  
  
"Stop," I say.  
  
"Do you need to vomit again?"  
  
"I'll wash myself."  
  
"No. You're going to sit there under the water wishing for a drink." Peeta starts rinsing the soap out of my hair. He carefully grabs a towel to keep it from going into my eyes. "My dad yelled at you, didn't he?"  
  
I don't answer.  
  
"I'm sorry if he did. It was bad enough already, wasn't it? And you used to be friends, right?"  
  
I nod.  
  
He picks up a sponge and starts on my neck and shoulders. "He told you that I want Katniss to come home."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's right. I do. I'm going to get her home."  
  
I don't say anything.  
  
Peeta turns down the temperature on the water and just lets it run over me a little bit. He sits on the side of the tub with the sponge in his hands, staring at it like it might have some answer for him. He's not a copy of Danny, though there's a similarity to them. He has the blond hair and blue eyes that all of the merchants have, and, like his mother, a mess of wild curls on his head. (Danny has a few curls, but he has nothing on any of his sons in this department. Peeta's curls are almost as crazy as mine.) He wears his hair short, but lets a long shock of bangs come down over his forehead. There's something of Mir in his nose and mouth, but his eyes are Danny's, completely unchanged. He isn't exceptionally tall, but he's strong and sturdy.  
  
"It's not because I want to die," he says. "I don't. But I can't let _her_ die. People need her. I've watched her. She doesn't know that. She's…" He sighs heavily. "Dad's got two other sons. Once you get the heir and the spare, it's kind of superfluous, anyway."  
  
I want to tell him that he's not superfluous to his father, but it's awkward to talk like this, with me half-naked in a bath tub and him thinking that he's supposed to play nursemaid.  
  
"And Dad… he raised me to look at what other people need. Maybe that _is_ what I need -- to feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. I don't know." He bites his lip. "I guess he wants you to talk me out of it."  
  
"He does."  
  
"Tell him you did," he says. "Tell him you talked sense into me, and it was all just bad luck. I never should have told him, anyway. I just… I wanted him to know that it'll be on my terms. Guess that was dumb."  
  
He gets up and wrings the sponge out in the sink.  
  
The cold water is sobering me up a little bit. "Peeta," I say.  
  
He looks over his shoulder.  
  
"I _did_ talk you into it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Water covers in here. But the train's bugged. You're playing by the rules for them."  
  
His eyes widen, then he nods. "Right. Fighting for my life here."   
  
"You need to do that. Even with your… game plan. You hold on as long as you can. It's no good if you sacrifice yourself for her at the Cornucopia, then she dies on the third day out because you weren't there for her, right?"   
  
"I didn't think of that."  
  
"Think." I rub my head. I'm not quite ready to deal with this. It doesn't really matter if he dies at the Cornucopia or on the last day -- dead will still be dead. But if I can just get the time to _think_ …  
  
"Okay." He frowns. "Can you really get yourself cleaned up? Because…"  
  
"You don't want to wash up a naked drunk? I'm shocked."  
  
He smiles wearily. "Dad drank himself into a fit once when he and Mom were fighting. I took care of him. It's no big deal. He didn't even remember the next day. You won't, either."  
  
"I will," I say. "I don't black out much. So… I'm awake. I can get the hard to reach places, if you don't mind."  
  
He gives me a skeptical look. "I guess if you can think about bugs, you can probably wash yourself." He doesn't seem all that convinced. "But I'll be right outside if you need me. Yell if you get dizzy."  
  
I nod.  
  
Peeta stays a few seconds more, obviously torn on this, then goes out into the rest of the compartment.  
  
I strip down and take a quick shower. I think shaving can wait for tomorrow.  
  
When I finish, I find that Peeta has left a pair of pajamas, underwear, and a robe by the door. I put them on and go out. Peeta is sitting at my desk, looking at the sponsor books. The black lines through the canceled sponsorships accuse me mutely.  
  
"Better?" I ask, running a towel over my hair as I sit down on the edge of the bed. I'm still sick to my stomach and off my game, but I feel more normal. Peeta has cleaned up the spilled bottle of gin, and cracked a window for some fresh air. It makes a not-unpleasant whistling sound.  
  
"A couple of people annoyed?" Peeta asks, nodding at the book.  
  
"I'll fix it. I'll grovel to whoever I need to grovel to."  
  
He nods and closes the book, then turns the chair around toward me. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Are you going to be okay to help us?"  
  
"Yeah. By hook or by crook."  
  
"Is it… okay that I'm scared?"  
  
"You'd be nuts otherwise. But don't show it. I don't think you can get away with pulling a Johanna Mason."  
  
"I hadn't thought of that."  
  
"Think. Remember, the cameras are always on, from here on out."  
  
"Okay. So, what do I do?"  
  
I think about it. "Let me sleep it off. I'll meet you at breakfast."  
  
"Okay. We start over at breakfast, then."  
  
"Good deal."  
  
"What happens tomorrow?"  
  
"Prep," I tell him. "They'll wash you. Shave you. And they won't let you tell them that you can do it yourself."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"There's a shot, too. To keep you from disturbing the lines of costumes."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If you plan to entertain yourself, do it tonight."  
  
He wrinkles his nose. "Thanks for the tip."  
  
We look at each other, then, astoundingly, he starts to laugh, his face going completely red. I can't help it. I laugh back.  
  
He opens the door. "I'll see you at breakfast."  
  
I nod.  
  
The laughter doesn't last long, but it clears my mind better than the cool water did. I go back to the sponsor list. There's not much I can do from the train, and I can't think of anything that will get back the Collingsworth woman, but when Effie comes by, I go out into the corridor and ask her to set up a meeting for me with the president of the Daughters of the Founding, during prep if possible.  
  
"I already did," she says. "You seemed upset. Before supper, I used the communications car. I took the liberty to set up the appointment. Are you feeling better? Will you be up to the meeting?"  
  
"I will. Just… I'll need coffee tomorrow morning. And can you make sure I'm up for breakfast?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Effie… I'm sorry about today."  
  
She smiles, and it's so close to her old smile that I almost think it's her. "That's why there's tomorrow. I'll see you then."  
  
She goes into her compartment.  
  
I go back to mine.  
  
Sleep doesn't come easily, despite the chemicals still perking through my blood. I watch the reapings around the country. Chaff's tribute, a huge boy named Thresh, looks pretty formidable. Seeder's girl, a delicate twelve-year-old named Rue, looks like a breeze will blow her over, but, like Katniss, she stands calmly on the stage after the reaping. There's the usual crowd of Career volunteers for the most part, though, as in Finnick's year, there's no volunteer for the boy, leaving Finnick with a rather scrawny fifteen year old boy and the news with speculation that he'll be another Finnick. The District Six tributes act like they've been defeated already. The girl from District Eight, Kersey, exchanges a glance with Cecelia, so I suspect they know each other. A boy in the crowd tries to run forward, but of course, a boy can't volunteer for a girl. (I've often thought that, if they allowed that, all of my tributes would be boys, because they couldn't stand the shame otherwise.)  
  
I think of Katniss, standing on the stage, her face straining to remain calm. I think of Peeta, sitting at the edge of the tub, staring at the sponge. Of Danny. Of Ruth. Of Maysilee's mockingjay.  
  
I finally fall into a thin sleep, deep in the night. I dream of Maysilee. We are in her uncle's stationery shop. In reality, it's been closed since Herk Donner died ten years ago. No one could afford to take it on, and now the reaping cards are managed at the Justice Building. In my dream, it's open. Maysilee and I are young, but I know it's not the past. I'm always sixteen in my dreams, and she was never any older. She was supposed to inherit the shop, and now, she's doing the inventory. There are boxes of mockingjay pins behind the counter. I have the vague idea that she means to hand them out to people, or maybe air-drop them. She's carrying a box around, but she's not talking about them.  
  
"Oh, look!" she says, and gets down a shiny book with a picture of me on the cover. I know it. It's called, _One in a Million Shot: Our New Quell Victor, Haymitch Abernathy_. There's a copy of it, still wrapped in plastic, somewhere in my house. I read it once in the Capitol when I was really drunk and desperately missed my family. There are pictures in the middle. One of them is of me with Maysilee, huddled together against the hedge. When she opens the book, it's not a picture, but a video. In it, she asks me to tell her a story.  
  
"Hmm," she says. "We sure looked cozy, didn't we?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. Except for people trying to kill us."  
  
She laughs at this. "There's that." She turns the page, and there's another video, this one not of anything that was in the book. It didn't happen until the next year.   
  
I am sitting in the mentor's quarters in the Training Center, speaking to my first sponsor, Laurentia Hoops, who says, _I never sponsored anyone before last year, but you and Maysilee were so wonderful with each other. I wish I could have saved both of you._  
  
Then she tells me that my accent is adorable.  
  
"What are you trying to tell yourself?" Maysilee asks me.  
  
"Nothing useful. Just wishful thinking." I shrug. "I sure wish you'd gotten your shop."  
  
"Well, that was out of the cards as soon as I got reaped. Victors don't own shops."  
  
"I know. Wouldn't want us doing anything useful."  
  
"Yeah, can't allow that." She grins. I start to leave, but she says, "Haymitch?"  
  
I turn.  
  
She reaches into the box and tosses me a mockingjay pin. "Don't forget."  
  
I look at it, and suddenly, it melts through my hand, pulling me backward, into the rain in District Twelve, then down through the mud, and I'm drowning in it. I see the pin above me somehow and try to reach up for it, but it stays just out of reach.  
  
I wake up, twisted up in my bed sheets, before Effie comes to get me. My head is pounding and my stomach still feels like there's a melee going on in there, but the last of the drunkenness has passed. I want another drink immediately, but I remember: I'm on my own, with two hostages to fortune.  
  
I force myself out of bed, and by the time Effie comes for me, I'm dressed and ready for breakfast. She's still groggy and half-asleep, and starts pouring coffee for both of us the second we get to the dining car.  
  
Peeta has beaten both of us here. I'd guess he's habitually up before dawn to work in the bakery. There's a pile of food beside him, but he's not eating yet.  
  
I sit down and grab a roll. Bread will settle my stomach. "Not planning to eat?"  
  
"It seemed rude to start alone."  
  
Effie's eyes light up momentarily at the idea of a tribute who knows the word "rude," but then she gets confused, since, in the Capitol, manners have less to do with the rules of making other people comfortable and more to do with proving to them that you know all of the same secret codes. It didn't confuse her before. She knew how to use the district concept to convey the Capitol concept, so that the tributes would do both. Now, she's stuck on the idea that someone _can_ be worried about being polite without knowing the proper order of a formal meal.  
  
"I _did_ have some of this," he says, pointing to a tureen. "It tastes like chocolate."  
  
"It is. It's better chocolate than your dad can get in Twelve."  
  
"What's it called? The drink, I mean."  
  
I smile. "Hot chocolate. Not exactly creative, but it gets the point across."  
  
"It's good."  
  
"Yeah, but I better get on the coffee." I down part of the cup Effie gave me. It's pretty vile, and doesn't sit well, but it will keep me alert.  
  
"Oh," Peeta says. "Right."  
  
He seems to need some kind of reassurance that I'm not still drunk, so I joke with him a little bit about the upcoming prep session. I think he doesn't believe me about some of it. He picks up a roll and starts to eat.  
  
"They're not going to wax you down quite as much as they'll get Katniss," I tell him. "But believe me, you're going to find out there's hair in places you never thought about." I laugh. He looks at me awkwardly, but maybe with a little bit of trust.  
  
The door opens and Katniss Everdeen comes in, brushing past Effie. She's back in the green outfit, Maysilee's pin glowing against it. I'll have to tell her about it someday, but right now, it doesn't seem like the time. She slept in the elaborate up-do she had for the reaping. I think Cinna will like it.  
  
I wave her over and signal to the waiters to bring her breakfast. "Sit down! Sit down!"  
  
I start to tell her to fill up and get as many calories as she can without making herself sick, but she seems to already be on top of that. Peeta pours her a glass of hot chocolate, which she takes without paying attention. He tells her what it is. She seems to like it.  
  
Effie brings me a small bottle of gin and a glass of cranberry juice, possibly the vilest drink I can imagine… perfect for keeping me on a short leash. She wrinkles her nose, then goes to get ready for the day. It's medicinal-tasting, which is exactly what it should be. I drink while the kids gorge themselves. I notice Katniss looking at me with flat disapproval. Peeta is also doing a slow burn.  
  
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," Katniss says.  
  
Just like that. That's another change. Usually, this early, they're still trying to convince themselves that it's not all a cosmic mistake, to be rectified as soon as possible. "Here's some advice," I say. "Stay alive." It's something Chaff has said to me on many occasions, and probably the only advice that means anything in the arena, but when I laugh, they don't join me.  
  
"That's very funny," Peeta says, then there's a sharp pain as he knocks the glass out of my hand. It shatters on the floor. "Only not to us."  
  
I look between them. They're not trying to convince themselves of anything. They're both here, both completely present, both aware of what's happening.  
  
I don't really have a plan for this. The train ride and the time before prep is usually wasted time for anything other than Effie's manners lessons. And here they both are, both of them… possible.  
  
I know Katniss speaks victor. I saw it on the stage yesterday. But Peeta is another question. I'd written him off because of Danny's stress on his good heart. A baker and an artist. Danny's kid.  
  
But also Mir's. I wonder if he has just enough of her hardness to make it.  
  
I take a swing at him.  
  
It connects harder than I expect it to, sending him down to the floor. I reach for the bottle of gin, figuring he'll go for that -- it's a trigger for him, apparently.  
  
Instead, Katniss jams her knife into the table between my hand and the bottle. Her shoulders go tense, but her face is cold. No anger. No fear.  
  
"What's this?" I ask. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"  
  
Peeta must realize what I did and why, because he stops fighting. He gets up and reaches for the ice.  
  
"No," I tell him, thinking about my own year, about the way the other victors took to me because I put Albinus Drake on the floor. I wonder if that slipped out. There are viewers of the Games who probably would have liked that. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."  
  
Peeta raises an eyebrow. "That's against the rules," he tells the bugs.  
  
"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." I look at Katniss, who still has her hand on the hilt of the knife in the table. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"  
  
She pulls it out of the table and lets it fly at the wall. It jams up to the hilt in the seam between two panels. I don't know if it's luck or skill. Either one will be useful in the arena.  
  
All year, I've been trying to concoct a crazy scheme to use the Games for the rebellion. I've talked to Chaff and Finnick about what kinds of tributes could make it work. Wishing for good ones.  
  
Well, wishes are apparently sometimes granted. I should know better than making them.  
  
"Stand over there," I tell them. "Both of you."  
  
They give each other a long-suffering look, then stand in the spot on the floor that I'm pointing at.  
  
Absolutely no one in District Twelve would think they fit together. Peeta is definitely from town -- blond and decently-fed. Despite having Ruth for a mother, Katniss is Glen's girl in terms of looks -- straight Seam, with long black hair and piercing gray eyes. Her olive skin is smooth, but dry, and this close, I can see the places where the coal dust has already started to settle. She's thin, but not as skinny as most Seam girls. I'm guessing she breaks a few rules to keep her family fed, since there's no way Ruth's skill with plants is bringing in regular money down there, especially since she takes care of a lot of people for free. There's a wiry strength in her that I know well.  
  
In Twelve, people would see these two standing together and automatically assume they have nothing to do with each other. I remember times when I first started taking fancy classes that even my teacher would look up when I came in and ask if I was carrying a message for them. As to friendship? Even I didn't realize that Maysilee was my friend, at least until she saved my life in the arena.  
  
But what Twelve sees doesn't matter. In the Capitol audience, they'll see two strong, attractive kids who come from the same district, who will be together all the time. They're likeable. They're polite (well, in Katniss's case, _sort of_ polite, by Capitol standards). They're inseparable. Katniss and Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. By the time Cinna and I are done, it will be unthinkable to the audience to lose one of them.  
  
Except they will.  
  
That was supposed to be the point. To make the audience feel this impossible pressure.  
  
I wasn't supposed to be the first to feel it.  
  
My eyes fall on the broken glass on the floor. They're disgusted with my drinking, and I don't blame them, but unless they want me hallucinating in a hospital somewhere, they're going to have to put up with it a little better. I'll have Effie helping me to control it.  
  
"Well," I say, "you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."  
  
Peeta rolls his eyes. Katniss just glares.  
  
"All right. I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."  
  
"Fine," Peeta says.  
  
"So help us," Katniss says. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone -- "  
  
I put my hand on my head. Of course. She wants the Cornucopia. I'll figure out a way around that later. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."  
  
"But -- " Katniss starts.  
  
"No buts," I say. "Don't resist."  
  
I look at them again. They're looking back, waiting for some stellar advice, but I can't give it to them yet. I don't know them well enough, and I don't know what the other tributes will be like. I do know that I'll have to keep them from the Cornucopia. Peeta's strong, but I don't think he'd do well in a melee. Katniss seems to rely on her aim, which will be useless when she's still unarmed.  
  
I nod at them and go back to my compartment to get ready. As I go in, the train enters the tunnel that leads to the Capitol. The emergency lights come on. I change my shirt, to get rid of the cranberry juice on the sleeve.  
  
The compartment fills with sunlight as we leave the tunnel. It's a beautiful day in the Capitol. I can see the lake in the distance as the train slows down, and the crowds gathering in the streets to get their first glimpse of the tributes. As the train comes to a stop, they go wild.  
  
Apparently, my tributes are already playing to them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch has two meetings in the Capitol while his tributes are in prep.

Cinna's workshop, a few blocks from his studio, is almost too loud to have a conversation in, let alone for bugs to pick up what we're talking about while the prep teams are scrubbing, shaving, waxing, and otherwise tormenting the kids. Sewing machines are whirring, pressers are steaming, and lines of clothing for Katniss Everdeen are appearing on the racks. None of them seem to be the parade costume. Effie couldn't even get him to cough up drawings this year.  
  
"Oh, no," Cinna says. "The camera will go to you. I want the honest reaction."  
  
"No, you probably don't," I say.  
  
"You don't trust me? You promised you'd trust me. That was the deal." He sighs. "Caesar told me you'd break that one. I suspected it when Effie came sniffing around, but I didn't tell her, either."  
  
"Have you seen some of the things they've sent our tributes out in?"  
  
"Oh, well, I thought I'd send them down dressed in coal dust."  
  
"No, you didn't."  
  
"Sexy miner costumes?"  
  
"That would be every other year. You said you were doing something different."  
  
"Remember the year that Therinus dressed them up as coal and you and Effie put on red beads to make it look like they were on fire?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's like that, but I thought I'd actually set them on fire."  
  
I roll my eyes. "Come on, Cinna, what are you _really_ doing?"  
  
"Well, why do you _think_ I wanted the coal district?"  
  
"Cinna -- "  
  
"Ever hear of an auto-da-fé?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You haven't been reading enough of Plutarch's history books." He shrugs. "No one understands everything, but there was a time of religious tyranny. Inquisitors made people confess their sins and do penance -- an act of faith, or auto-da-fé -- to prove loyalty and devotion. The ultimate penance was being executed, and the ultimate form of execution was burning. They've already been forcing penance for ancient sins for seventy-three years. May as well go all the way to the pyre. Burn the soul of the world, as some poet or other said."  
  
I frown. "You're serious."  
  
"About the fire symbolism, yes." He smiles. "But I'm not going to burn your tributes to death, Haymitch. A little trust?"  
  
One of his assistants rushes by with a cart full of fabrics, almost knocking us over. Most of it is in pale yellows and oranges. Another bolt is covered with what appear to be actual gems, the sort of thing that's usually reserved for District One.  
  
"Isn't it a little late in the game for the fabric to still be on the bolts?" I ask.  
  
"That's not for the parade," Cinna says. "That's been done for a while. But I saw your girl. I saw her climb those stairs. I'm going to give her something special for the interview stage. And after the Games, I have a lot of dresses lined up for her appearances. She's special."  
  
He looks at me steadily. I wish I could give him an assurance, but I'm a little unnerved by his certainty. "You know, the boy is my friend's son."  
  
"He seems like a good kid."  
  
"He's a _really_ good kid. Cleaned me up, got me…" I find I can't really talk much about that. "They're both good, Cinna. If they'd been in different years…"  
  
"I'm sorry, Haymitch."  
  
"I want to make sure they're starting on equal footing here. There'll be a choice eventually, but I want them both to be viable as long as possible."  
  
He pulls me over to his office and sits me down. "They're not starting out equal. Don't you know?"  
  
"Know what?"  
  
"The Capitol likes the girl who stepped forward for her sister. The way she yelled. The way her sister held onto her." I start to object, but he holds up his hand. "I'm not saying she's the only one they like, or that it's an obsession. We're going to have to do a little work to get it up to a full-scale obsession. But I guarantee, not one person paid attention to the boy's reaping… including you, I might remind you."  
  
"I was passed out," I mutter.  
  
"I noticed."  
  
"That wasn't my best moment."  
  
"Really?"  
  
I sit down at his drafting table. The chair is at a strange, vertiginous angle, and the work surface is tilted up. "I think I screwed things up yesterday. I have to fix it."  
  
"You will. A lot of people here like you. They think you're the wild cousin who comes to visit every year."  
  
"I'm not." I peek at a few sketches, none of which seem like parade costume material. One is a very plain black jumpsuit. I look back at Cinna. "Peeta will catch up to her. If she's going to have a problem, it's going to be when she opens her mouth. She's not the friendliest person you'll ever meet."  
  
"And the boy?"  
  
"I haven't seen him on camera yet, but he's a lot more personable than she is. He's nice, actually. I think people will like him when he starts talking to them. I don't want him to stay in her shadow."  
  
Cinna puts a hand on my shoulder. "Portia's not going to let him fade into the background."  
  
"Portia's not the problem. Peeta is. He's going for the sacrifice play. He wants the girl to win."  
  
Cinna's eyes widen, then he shakes his head. "No one's sacrificing anything in these costumes, anyway. They'll talk about her -- they always talk about the girls' costumes -- but no one is going to forget him, either. Not on my watch, or Portia's."   
  
"I just want to find a way out. She can win. But I want them both to come home."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"I know. It's not the way the Games are played."  
  
Cinna grins. "Well, the Games aren't played by trying to figure out how to get through the forcefield, either," he says. "But I seem to recall someone winning that way."  
  
"Very funny. But there's a difference between an unorthodox strategy and a rule change."  
  
"Maybe. Except that the one who had the unorthodox strategy is on the outside this time, where he can maybe try some other unorthodox strategies."  
  
"If I ask, they'll kill both of them."  
  
"We'll have to make that politically difficult."  
  
"Cinna, they'll never, _ever_ do that. I don't want to start hoping."  
  
"Yeah, because hoping is a terrible thing."  
  
"You know what I mean." There's nothing more to say, so I go back to the subject at hand. "So, the parade costume. You're doing some kind of flame design?"  
  
"Yes, Haymitch. I'm having the preps tattoo it onto their skin right now. It'll be unforgettable."  
  
"You'd better be kidding."  
  
"Yeah. It's just body paint. And a tee shirt." He grins again.  
  
We talk a little more. I try not to imagine some kind of horrible papier-mâché flames. Cinna assures me again that of _course_ he's not going to kill the kids in the chariot, but I will just have to wait and see what he _does_ mean to do.  
  
I can't stay to press for any more details, because Effie has managed to get me a lunch meeting at the headquarters of the Daughters of the Founding. I would normally walk -- I think it's only a few blocks from here, though I've never visited it directly -- but I can't risk being late, and people do tend to stop victors wandering around on parade day, especially if there's been an interesting reaping. I call for a Games car.   
  
I've never called for one before. Taxis have been adequate, and don't require calling the Gamemakers. When it arrives, I see that it's meant to be conspicuously inconspicuous. It's smaller than the one they sent to gather me up for Claudius's show years ago, and less armored. It's just a low black car with smoked out windows and the Games logo discreetly displayed on the windshield. The driver is wearing dark glasses and gloves, and an understated black body sock as a uniform. There's nothing about her left to the imagination, but it's curiously uninteresting, anyway.  
  
She drives me through the crowded streets. People lean toward the car at stops, trying to figure out who's inside. A girl catches up to the car at one point and opens her jacket to reveal a District Four seal on her tee shirt. I think she'd probably be extremely disappointed if I were to roll down the window.  
  
The car pulls up to a set of ornate iron gates, which open silently into a bricked patio, leading to a house older than anything I've ever seen. It's in good condition, but it matches nothing else in the Capitol. When the gate closes behind us, the rest of the Capitol is shut away.  
  
"This was here before," I guess.  
  
"Yes, sir," the driver tells me. "A lot of the city was razed during the Catastrophes -- "  
  
"But not all of it," I remember. "That's why they stopped here."  
  
"They stayed in this house for a few weeks when they got in, then it was the government center for a while, at least until they found something better. I think the Daughters give a tour."  
  
I get out and pay her. The place has a wide, two-story porch, and a little cupola up on top. The Daughters maintain a garden of desert plants, which I walk through on the way to the door.  
  
I ring to enter. A camera turns and looks at me, then they buzz me in.  
  
The rooms are richly appointed, though much of the furniture is surrounded by velvet ropes. Nothing has been hung on the walls, but portraits are suspended from the ceiling. I round a turn and come face to face with Laelia Grant, the "mother" of the Capitol, who at least historically seems to have been a decent human being. In the portrait, she is holding her bow off to one side as she looks to the sky. I'm sure the artist meant for her to be looking to the glorious future, but I can't help thinking she looks frustrated at the lack of birds to shoot.  
  
I'm led up the stairs to a small sitting room, where a woman sits behind an ornate desk. She's younger than most of the Daughters, not that much older than me, though it's hard to tell for sure in the Capitol. She's wearing a sharply-detailed blue suit, and a natural hair wig that's been styled into a delicate tower. It looks like a waterspout on the lake.  
  
She looks up sharply, then stands. "Mr. Abernathy. My name is Aquila Grant."  
  
I nod to her and offer my hand. She does not shake it. I put it down.  
  
"Grant?" I say. "As in Mother Laelia?"  
  
"Yes," she says, but doesn't elaborate, which would be enough to tell me that I'm in trouble, even if I didn't already know. Most of the Daughters are happy to tell you exactly who they're related to, what the degree of kinship is, and everything the family has been doing since. I've often felt that my father, who passed down the family dictionary along with its stories, would have liked them.  
  
Though, judging by the look on Aquila Grant's face, it might not have been mutual.  
  
"You've come to ask for your sponsorship, I assume."  
  
"Ma'am, I have two very strong tributes this year, and they'll need everything I can get them. But what I've come for is to apologize."  
  
"To get the money back?"  
  
"I wouldn't refuse it if you offered," I tell her. "But the Daughters have been my staunchest friends in the Capitol. I'm sorry that I've embarrassed them."  
  
She shakes her head and points at a red-velvet chair with dark wood legs. "Please sit down," she says.  
  
I do.  
  
She goes back behind the desk and picks up a pen. I don't know what she means to do with it. Maybe she'll write "drunk" on my forehead and send me out into the streets. She stares at it for a while, then puts it down, perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk. She looks at me.  
  
"We didn't come to this decision lightly. It's been under discussion in the past. _Several_ times. I should inform you that I have initiated many of these conversations. In fact, I urged members to withhold their individual sponsorships as well, but the organization has no power over what members do with their money."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Many of our members find you charming. Amusing, even drunk. You make them laugh, and you make them feel important. You make them feel like they're helping someone less fortunate."  
  
"They are. The sponsorships are --"  
  
She cuts me off with a look. "I don't find you charming," she says.  
  
"I'm sorry. What can I do to change your mind?"  
  
"I'm not interested in seeing you abase yourself, nor do I want to be charmed." She sits back and looks at me sharply. "Do you know what my job is, Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
"You're not a Gamemaker, are you?"  
  
"Not in the sense you're imagining, no. But I have worked with them. I administer various aptitude tests. I doubt you would remember me, but when I was young, in college, I administered tests to you, in the hospital, while you were recovering."  
  
"I remember the tests. I never knew why they gave them to me."  
  
"They wanted to know if your behavior in the arena was something they should have expected, or if you were something of an aberration."  
  
"So what was I?"  
  
"An aberration, in every way." She reconsiders. "Except mathematics. I'm afraid you're only mildly above average in numerical reasoning. Every other test, though, was astounding. To see scores like that from a district boy with a frankly terrible formal education… I looked forward to seeing what you would do. The Gamemakers tried to get President Snow to let you move here and work for them. You could have been anything. You decided to drink yourself into oblivion instead. It _offends_ me."  
  
"May I speak honestly?"  
  
"Yes. Especially if you continue to refrain from the bumpkin accent you use on the others."  
  
"It _is_ my natural accent, ma'am, and I'm not going to try and sound like a Capitolite. But I'll keep it to the way I actually talk. No embellishments. Deal?"  
  
She nods. "Very well."  
  
"There isn't anything to _be_ in District Twelve. Or anywhere else. If I'd never gone to the Games, I'd have been a miner. As a victor, there's not a lot I'm allowed to do."  
  
"Are you telling me that you drink because you're bored?"  
  
"Partly, I suppose. It's not all of it. I'd probably drink if I weren't bored, too. But if you think I could have been anything at all… Ma'am, no offense, but you don't know the districts."  
  
"Do you know what was here when the Founders came?"  
  
"A few buildings, a lot of open desert, and a lot of bombed out shells."  
  
"And a lake we couldn't drink from." She sighs. "They had very little. They set up in the remains. They built the whole city."  
  
"They didn't have someone's boot on their necks while they were doing it."  
  
She smiles, taking me utterly by surprise. I look over my shoulder to see if she's called in the Peacekeepers to pull me away for sedition.  
  
"You needn't worry," she says. "I am not, shall we say, a fan of our current fashion of footwear."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I don't think the founders would be, either."  
  
I don't answer. I know better. She's as much as admitted that she's worked for the Gamemakers. So far, I haven't said anything that I haven't at least slurred over a drink in public without incident.  
  
She sighs. "I do feel for those children. The girl who volunteered for her sister… do you think she has a chance? Answer me as a victor, not a mentor."  
  
"I don't know her very well, but… as a victor. Yes. I think so."  
  
"And the boy?"  
  
I nod. "And it's about them, not me."  
  
She picks up the pen again and taps it absently on the desk. "I have always felt a certain historical kinship to Twelve. Like the Capitol, it was founded independently. Until Thirteen overran it, it was doing fairly well." She pulls herself out of her historical musing, which may or may not bear a resemblance to the way things actually happened. There's far too much fog for her to know anything for sure. "I will meet with the board to re-visit the question of the corporate sponsorship."  
  
"Thank you --"  
  
"But if you appear drunk, you _will_ lose it, and it will not be reinstated in any other year."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." I decide to make a point of refusing drinks when the cameras are around. She'll see through the act -- obviously, she sees through the rest of it -- but she might actually appreciate the symbolism.  
  
That is apparently the end of the meeting. She calls in her secretary to re-call the board, and dismisses me impatiently.  
  
The kids are still in prep when I get there, though their stylists have joined them now. A few of the other districts are already prepared. The District Two kids, painted up as granite statues, are sitting casually on their chariot chatting about something. As I watch, District One comes out and joins them. The District Two girl gets up and grabs onto the District One girl and mock screams, "No! You can't go!"  
  
The girl from District One makes an exaggerated face and squares her shoulders dramatically. "I volunteer!" she says.  
  
They all laugh.  
  
"I hate them already," Chaff says, coming up beside me.   
  
Seeder is right behind him, but she keeps looking over her shoulder toward the prep rooms. "What's taking so long?" she asks. "Rue doesn't really need that much prep."  
  
"You know they're going to do something with all that hair of hers," Chaff says. "They're probably weaving it into a mock-up of the president's mansion or something."  
  
"That's the little one?" I ask.  
  
Seeder nods. "She's little. But she's smart. Don't you underestimate her, Haymitch."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, though I'm pretty sure all three of us know better than to have much hope for her.  
  
"Have you seen Finnick yet?"  
  
"Out with friends of Snow's," Chaff tells me. "Left pretty much as soon as he got in. You know how the boy parties." He wrinkles his nose.  
  
"Yeah. I do."  
  
"He'll be back for the parade, though. His spot in the box is reserved."  
  
"The box?"  
  
"Yup. They finally decided to just put us all in a box. They'll probably put a bow in your hair to make you look pretty."  
  
Seeder gives him a friendly shove. "There's a viewing box this year. I think they're warming up some new ideas for the Quell."  
  
I groan. "Don't remind me."  
  
"What, that it's been a quarter century that you've been lounging around with us?"  
  
"Yes, that's exactly what I meant."  
  
She smiles.  
  
Chaff leads the way out to the main audience section, around City Center. I can see the platform the president will give his speech from. Security is combing it carefully, though I don't think anyone's ever considered the possibility of just offing him at his podium. Maybe Beetee could electrify it somehow.  
  
We're the first mentors to the box. There are more seats than mentors, so I guess every victor in the Capitol this year will be here. There are four rows of seating. Finnick will be in the third row -- most of the first and second are taken up by victors from One and Two. Chaff and Seeder and I are up in the back corner.  
  
I can see the nationwide broadcast on the screens. We're in the middle, with commentators pointing us out while the audience waits. Inset in the corners are live scenes from different districts gathering to watch. As usual, the tributes families are dragged into it. I see Primrose Everdeen biting her lip anxiously before the scene switches to another district.  
  
As the sun sets, the others start to come in. Johanna has changed into Capitol clothes (unless she wears the latest thing at home), and runs up the stairs to give Seeder a hug, flirt with Chaff and me, and tell all of us every detail about her life, Blight's life, and Jack's that she knows, up until Blight signals her to come down. Jack is apparently not coming in this year. Brutus is doing a lot of chest pounding, as usual. Finnick ducks in from his "party" and comes up to say hello before going to his seat. He looks grim. "Annie's mentoring," he says.  
  
"What? Where's Mags?"  
  
"She's here, and she'll help if she can, but she had a stroke."  
  
"Is she all right?" Seeder asks.  
  
"It takes more than that to kill Mags Donovan," Finnick says. "But she's been having trouble talking. And walking. Annie's been staying with her and taking care of her. I told her she should stay home -- both of them, really; let one of the others come up -- but the Capitol wanted Annie, and Mags insisted. Says there's better medicine here anyway. But… " He shudders. "Annie's been at the doctor with her all day. Maybe they'll be able to fix her up. Mags, I mean. Annie's fine."  
  
"Fine" may be something of an overstatement. This is the first time Annie's been back in the Capitol since her Victory Tour ended, and when she leads Mags into the box (I try not to wince at the way she's dragging her foot), she's jumping at every sound. When the trumpets go off to announce the beginning of the parade, she puts her hands over her ears and starts rocking back and forth. Finnick puts his arms around her. The cameras don't catch this. In fact, they don't focus on Finnick at all, as long as he's with Annie.  
  
The announcer does his usual spiel about introducing the tributes. Boxes open up on our chairs, and the Games program appears. I take it out and scan it.  
  
District One. Glimmer and Marvel. Their chariot comes out -- both of them are blond and attractive, and the girl's outfit is cut to reveal almost everything. Undoubtedly, the only reason it's _not_ everything is that they want to save something for later. She blows long, inappropriate kisses, and licks her lips. Marvel flexes his gold-flecked muscles.  
  
District Two. Clove and Cato. Statues. I can't see anything through their makeup. Their pictures in the program are the usual.  
  
District Three. Onnissey and Nonni. They've been turned into televisions, as far as I can tell, and they both look embarrassed about it.  
  
District Four. Charlotte and Garvey, dressed as pirates. She's tough. He looks defeated already. The camera still doesn't go to Finnick, but now it might be because he doesn't look much happier with the situation.  
  
District Five. Finch and Tesla. They're wrapped in wires, and their stylist has made a gold paper lightning bolt between them, apparently striking the chariot from the angry heavens, with arcs hitting both of them. I don't have a read on either of them.  
  
District Six. Tamora and Chiron. They look like they might have spent the trip up here getting high with Berenice and Paulin, though I hope not.  
  
District Seven --  
  
Far down the parade route, I hear a rising roar. People in all of the fancy box seats are standing up, craning their necks. The broadcast stays doggedly on the current chariot, but it's clear that gasps and cheers are coming up in the distance. All I can see is a faint glow.  
  
"Is that Twelve?" Seeder asks.  
  
"I don't know," I say.  
  
The broadcast seems to speed up suddenly, as if the producers want to get to whatever is interesting. They go through Eight, Nine, and Ten perfunctorily, then lavish a small amount of attention on tiny Rue, but it's clear that they're in a hurry to get to the end.  
  
I can almost see them when the image comes up on the screen.  
  
Katniss and Peeta are standing hand in hand in the chariot. Somehow, she's found the little girl who used to ride on Glen's shoulders and sing to strangers at the top of her voice -- she's waving and smiling and throwing kisses to the crowd, where a lot of people have obviously checked their Games programs, because they are chanting, "Katniss! Katniss!"  
  
Peeta is not obviously falling back -- she'd never let him -- but I can see it, the way he's angled just right to put her forward to the cameras, the way his waving is just a bit less than hers.  
  
Of course, I doubt any of that _really_ matters.  
  
I'm pretty sure the only thing anyone is noticing is that the tributes of District Twelve are on fire.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After District Twelve upstages everyone else, Haymitch is called away from his tributes.

**Chapter Five**  
"That's my sister!"  
  
I look down. Once the tributes came out of the Remake Center, the big screens lining the route switched to only showing the feed of the parade -- wouldn't want a tribute suddenly breaking down at the sight of a loved one -- but on the small screens set into the chairs in the box, I can see the national broadcast. In District Twelve, Primrose Everdeen has jumped to her feet, and is looking up with a cross between elation and superstitious awe. The cameras there focus in on her, setting the image up in the upper left part of the screen. It's full dark in Twelve, of course, and the flickering flames coming from the giant screen in the square illuminate Prim, like she's actually basking in the fire around Katniss.  
  
It's a brief moment, an instant in time, then the Gamemakers move on to crowd shots here, but it's golden, as far as Katniss Everdeen is concerned.  
  
Unfortunately, as far as a lot of the audience can see, there is only one tribute in the chariot. I know Peeta wants it that way, and I know he'll hold his own once talking is involved, but the tone is set. Katniss is the District Twelve tribute. Peeta is her supporting cast.  
  
I wonder how much Danny hates me right now, or if he's too busy realizing that Peeta means to go through with his plan to think about anything else.  
  
I decide to think about it later. Right now, for the first time in my memory, District Twelve is the talk of the parade. They're upstaging everyone. Even my friends look a little bit put out, and the others? Up in the front row, Brutus is glaring at the chariot as it goes by. If they were in the arena, I think he'd be attacking them. I'm not entirely sure that it's out of the question here until they're well past us, leaving only a trail of sparks as they pull up in front of President Snow.  
  
To my unending delight, they also upstage Snow. The cameras linger on them, even while he's giving his usual empty welcome. Oh, there are always cutaways to the tributes. But this year, shots of Snow and the other chariots all seem to be cutaways from the spectacle of Cinna's auto-da-fé.  
  
After a while, as Snow drones on, I start to see through the flames. It's not _just_ Cinna. They are holding hands, leaning on each other. It's not just the visual unification that Cinna and I talked about. They're working together.  
  
When the speech ends, the chariots go back to the Remake Center. I can see the other tributes shifting uncomfortably, and throwing irritated glances over their shoulders. Katniss is throwing kisses again, and Peeta is smiling just behind her. Their hands are still locked. I wonder what they make of it back in Twelve.  
  
The coverage goes back to the stables, and I see them dismount, and let go of each other's hands. The camera focuses on an affectionate (but unheard) conversation, and then Katniss kisses Peeta's cheek, right over the bruise I left. There's an audible "Aw" from the crowd.  
  
"Did you tell them to do that?" Chaff asks me.  
  
"Yeah," I say. "That's me. District matchmaker."  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
I shake my head. "That's them. I've barely had a chance to talk to them."  
  
I'm just getting up to leave and head back to the apartment when a little girl from Capitol Dreams -- one of the runners, like Effie used to be -- comes up and says, "Mr. Abernathy? There's a car waiting to take you to the studio for the parade panel."  
  
I raise my eyebrows. In twenty-three years, I've never been asked to be on the parade panel -- a group of mentors who give their reactions to the tribute parade. I honestly forgot it existed. It's not even mandatory viewing.  
  
"I need to check in on my tributes…"  
  
"Sir, the car's _waiting_ ," the runner says.  
  
"Effie'll get them set up and fed," Chaff tells me. "Run along. I hear the ladies _love_ the parade panel. Johanna will be jealous. You get to talk about the clothes."  
  
"Great, thanks."  
  
I follow the little girl down the stairs and to a large Games production car. I'm apparently the last mentor collected. Cecelia, Enobaria, and Cashmere are already there, and they look at me with some measure of amusement. Cecelia straightens my tie as the car starts to move, then winces and says, "The preps will take care of you when we get there."  
  
"I thought I was looking spiffy."  
  
"Effie didn't go over you, did she?"  
  
I shake my head. Effie "goes over" me when she knows I have an appearance, but she wasn't expecting anything more than crowd shots today, which means I'm on my own. I'm wearing a decent suit and sober. I'm not sure what the others think the problem is.  
  
I find out rather quickly when we get to the studio. There's no full prep session, of course -- that's for the kids -- but hair stylists flock over to shampoo and trim me, and I'm moisturized and given a fresh suit from Cinna. There's a note in the pocket -- _Portia and I are helping Effie look after our fiery charges… see you at dinner._ By the time I'm done, I look…  
  
Well, I look like a pudgy middle-aged man in a nice suit, with his hair freshly done, which I guess is an improvement. There's only so much they can do with the raw materials these days. At least they've covered up the blotches on my skin.  
  
There's a knock at the door. I check the time -- the call isn't for another ten minutes, since the ladies are all getting fancier hairstyles, so I assume it's another prep, but instead, it's a junior Gamemaker who I don't know. He presents me with a gilt-edged "invitation," then turns sharply and leaves.  
  
I am to report to the office of Plutarch Heavensbee, Executive Gamemaker, immediately following the parade panel. There is to be no stop in between. Another car will be waiting.  
  
I grind my teeth. I know Plutarch can't very well just announce that he's calling me in to talk rebellion, but he doesn't need to bark orders, either. I've been invited in much more cordially by other Gamemakers, and everyone knows that Plutarch and I go back to my Victory Tour. He was a little pompous back then, before they dragged him in for re-education after he expressed the wrong opinion to the wrong person. Then either he beat it, or Fulvia talked him back to himself -- he credits her, she credits him, so I suspect the truth is somewhere between them -- and now, he's insufferable. But he's on my side.  
  
I tuck the invitation into my suit pocket.  
  
A few minutes later, I'm out on the stage, talking to one of the junior interviewers, Vitalis Zoll. Cecelia is to my right, and Cashmere is to my left. Enobaria, her pointed teeth polished to glow in the spotlight, is sitting at the far end of our little arc.  
  
I don't feel like I can talk with any authority on this subject. I know men's clothes reasonably well, but there's a big difference between that and the theater of the absurd that's the Hunger Games tribute parade. Still, Vitalis isn't bad as a host. He asks each of us about different things, so we aren't just nodding and calling the costumes "pretty."  
  
Cecelia knows fabrics very well, which is undoubtedly why she's on the panel. She's fond of District One, and thinks the textures in District Nine are very "evocative" of tilled soil. She's also a stickler for stitching, and praises the fitting for several districts.  
  
Cashmere is the expert on "pretty," apparently, and does her best to convince local designers to base the year's fashion trends on the sheer fabrics from District One. She also likes the "simplicity beneath the show" of District Twelve.  
  
Enobaria, for some reason, has made it her business to know the history of the parade. She's able to recall costumes from past years, and make comparisons… at least until she gets to Cinna's costumes for this year. "I must admit," she says, "that was unique. A gimmick, of course, but a very convincing one. I don't ever recall seeing anything like it."  
  
"Oh," Vitalis says, "We'll get to Twelve. But first, Haymitch -- what do you think the Districts are saying about themselves this year? Especially your own, of course, but you're always so astute about strategy. What are the others trying to say?"  
  
I stumble through a little bit, because it's polite, but honestly, most haven't been given much more thought than a quick gloss on the district industry.  
  
It doesn't matter. It's us they want to talk about for once.  
  
"Did you know," Vitalis asks, leaning forward chummily, "that Katniss Everdeen is being called 'the Girl on Fire'?"  
  
"I've been here since the end of the parade. They've already got a name for her?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Look!" He points to a screen, where I see Katniss traveling along the parade route, blowing kisses. Peeta is barely visible behind her at this angle. It cuts to people on the street.  
  
"She's _amazing!_ " a girl Prim's age exclaims. "She's so beautiful!"  
  
"She's a star," a middle-aged man says.  
  
A woman with a little dog dyed to match her purple wig gushes, "Oh, it's so clever! And she looked so brilliant and strong, with the boy holding her hand."  
  
Well, at least someone noticed that Peeta was there, I guess.  
  
There's more of this, and a rush on the street for yellow, orange, and red feathers, which people are pinning into their hair.  
  
"So, what was District Twelve trying to say?" Vitalis asks. "What is the meaning of the Girl on Fire?"  
  
"If you don't mind?" Cecelia cuts in.  
  
"Not at all," I say.  
  
She smiles. "It means," she says, "that no one's going to ignore them this year."  
  
Everyone laughs politely, but of course, that's _exactly_ what it means, at least in terms of the Games. What it means for the rebellion is yet to be seen… if it means anything at all.  
  
A small car is waiting for me while the big one takes the others back to the Training Center. Mine goes straight to the Viewing Center, and I'm escorted inside to the elevator, which takes me up to the Gamemakers' quarters. There aren't any clues here -- the main view screens are off, and the Gamemakers are working quietly at tables.  
  
I'm led to a closed office door on the second level, a few doors down from Seneca Crane's office. Inside, Plutarch is sitting behind a huge desk, working on a ledger of some kind. He raises his hand without looking up, and I come in.  
  
"Shut the door," he tells me.  
  
I shut it.  
  
He continues not looking up. "As far as anyone else is concerned, I'm giving you a lecture about your behavior at the Reaping. There's a camera here in the ceiling -- can't read lips on it -- but no audio bugs. Look contrite."  
  
I arrange my features appropriately.  
  
He finally looks up, frowning impressively. "That was a disgusting display, by the way, and thumbing your nose at the camera wasn't good for anyone."  
  
I look down and fidget, like I'm being forced to apologize. "Tell them I was talking to the audience."  
  
"Oh, I already did." He stands up threateningly and adopts a menacing pose. "But I didn't call you here about that. You have to watch out for your tribute."  
  
"I know. It would be a lot easier if I'd been allowed to go back to the apartment."  
  
"I'm delaying supper there."  
  
"Yeah, that's what I'm concerned about."  
  
"They've assigned an Avox to your apartment. She'll be with the serving team, and then she'll stay for housekeeping."  
  
I frown. "They've been doing that for a few years."  
  
"Yes, well, this year, they switched them out after the girl volunteered. I don't know all the details, but I do know this one, Lavinia, was captured outside District Twelve, trying to run away with her boyfriend. There was footage at the scene from the hovercraft. Two indistinct figures were in the woods. They disappeared into the shadows before any accurate image could be gathered, but the girl matches your tribute's description."  
  
"So do about ninety percent of the girls _in_ Twelve."  
  
"So maybe it's nothing." He sits down. "But they made the assignment deliberately, and after she caught everyone's attention. People are supposed to volunteer to get the glory, not to protect their little sisters. And they aren't supposed to capture the heart of the Capitol in the process. Most of us don't even _know_ our siblings. Snow doesn't like it. I thought you should know. Intervene if they seem to recognize each other. Lavinia _is_ one of ours, for all the good it does."  
  
I nod and try to look humbly apologetic.  
  
"You'll know her right away. Beautiful long red hair. She reminds me of Gia."  
  
I breathe in sharply. Great. A ghost.  
  
Plutarch waves me out.  
  
The plaza has cleared out somewhat, and I turn down the car. I walk across to the Training Center and take the elevator upstairs. Appetizers are being served as I come in. None of the Avoxes have red hair, but I keep my eyes open. Katniss can't very well start out her time by admitting that she knows a traitor (if she does)… and, just as important, can't say that she's been outside the fence to meet _anyone_. I'm sure the Capitol has a pretty good list of our illegal hunters, but they ignore it when it's not rubbed in their faces. Here, they won't ignore it. They may not do anything to Katniss, but if she confirms anything, they'll likely try to find whoever she was out there with.  
  
They'll also put a stop to the positive coverage.  
  
"Haymitch!" Cinna says. "What kept you?"  
  
I sit down. "Well, someone decided to get us a little attention. Set my tributes on fire. For some reason, people want to talk about that."  
  
"It was _brilliant!_ " Effie declares. "Oh, the two of you are going to be the talk of the town!"  
  
The servers start to bring out the meals. I spot the redheaded girl for the first time carving a roast, and she definitely recognizes Katniss. She's nearly dancing to stay out of her sightline. Katniss doesn't see her. She's busy sampling everything on the table, including the wine, though at least she doesn't seem to like it. Peeta skips the wine. If he's had to clean up Danny the way he cleaned me up, I don't blame him.  
  
I abstain myself for now.  
  
I participate a little bit in the conversation, which is mainly Effie, Cinna, and Portia talking about the mood in the Capitol. Mostly, I watch my tributes.  
  
Peeta doesn't know much about the subject, but he knows small talk, and he asks questions that at least seem to convey real interest. Effie clearly adores him. Cinna and Portia talk to him about the shops in the fashion district, and ask him about the bakery. They talk about the difficulties of keeping a business running, and joke about getting up early to work. Peeta talks about drawing, and how he doesn’t have much time for it, but really enjoys it, and Cinna offers to show him some techniques.  
  
Katniss -- the Girl on Fire, apparently -- tunes out and concentrates on the food.  
  
I'm going to have to work with her on her presentation, if she can't even talk to Cinna, Effie, and Portia. After tonight, the cameras are going to eat her alive, and the Capitol will lose interest in her quickly if all she has (by their standards) is a pretty face and a good stylist.  
  
The main courses end, and they serve a small palate cleansing gelatin dish, then the redheaded Avox, Lavinia, brings out a dark chocolate cake. I can smell the alcohol from here, and I want a drink. Badly.  
  
Lavinia lights a match and sets the cake ablaze.  
  
Katniss looks up sleepily. She may have had more of the wine than I noticed. "What makes it burn?" she asks. "Is it the alcohol? That's the last thing I wa-- " Her eyes widen, and before I can think of a strategy to stop her, she says the worst thing she could possibly say: "Hey, I know you!"  
  
Lavinia shakes her head rapidly and looks to me.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss," Effie says, and some awful part of me is grateful that she sounds completely sincere. "How could you possibly know an Avox? The very thought!"  
  
Katniss frowns. "What's an Avox?"  
  
I look at her steadily, willing her to understand the importance of not pushing this. "Someone who committed a crime," I say. "They cut her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."  
  
She looks back. She understands.  
  
"And even if you did," Effie says, "you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order." She looks around the table, and I realize that she's at least a little bit awake tonight. Maybe she's off the damned pills for the length of the Games. "Of course, you don't really know her."  
  
Katniss may well understand, but she has no idea how to cover for what's already happened. She starts stammering something that makes no sense at all.  
  
Then, out of nowhere, Peeta snaps his fingers and smiles brightly, as if he's just made the most obvious connection in the world. "Delly Cartwright!"  
  
Katniss looks at him oddly. I probably do as well.  
  
"That's who it is," he says. "I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."  
  
I don't know Delly Cartwright, but I'm pretty sure she's Eli's daughter. He and his wife are both short, round-faced blonds. If their daughter is a tall, willowy redhead, I'm a jabberjay.  
  
"Of course," Katniss says. "That's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair."  
  
"Something about the eyes, too," Peeta embellishes, but stops there, before it gets any deeper.  
  
He's good.  
  
"Oh, well," Cinna says. "If that's all it is. And yes, the cake has spirits, but all of the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut."  
  
I decide not to have any of the cake anyway. It still smells like spirits, and I want a drink quite badly.  
  
After we finish eating, we watch the replay of the parade. It's really the third time it's been shown, I think, but this is the special version just for the tribute quarters -- the version with no commentary, no cut-in shots from home, nothing but the angles from City Center.  
  
It still makes it obvious that they were the stars of the show… and there is definitely something subversive about it. The way the camera keeps leaving the president to focus on them… it's something of a bullseye, and I realize that I have no idea how they feel about that.  
  
"Whose idea was the hand-holding?" I ask.  
  
"Cinna's," Portia tells me.  
  
"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," I say, and watch them carefully. "Very nice."  
  
Katniss looks slightly alarmed, but not displeased. I can't get a read on Peeta, but he's definitely picking up on the word "rebellion." I wonder how much he knows.  
  
It's time to get back to reality. "Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it." They look at each other. I roll my eyes at them. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."  
  
They head off for the hallway where the tributes' rooms are, and I see their shadows cast on the rug for a long time before both of them disappear. I guess they're going off to talk about their good friend, Delly Cartwright.  
  
The Avoxes start cleaning up.  
  
We can't speak freely here; that's a given. Instead, I thank Portia and Cinna again for all their work, and let Cinna crow about having told me exactly what he meant to do, while I didn't believe him. I tell him that I'll provisionally trust him for the rest.  
  
They leave around ten-thirty.  
  
"Are you staying here this year?" I ask Effie.  
  
"I'm going to go home tonight, to get the item we talked about, but I'll be back in the morning, and I'll stay." She sighs. "I think I'd better. I watched some of the public broadcast while they were changing. The people really like Katniss. We're going to have to --"  
  
"-- work on her presentation?"  
  
"Yes. And she's not the only one."  
  
"Peeta's fine."  
  
"I wasn't talking about Peeta, and you know it. Peeta is delightful."  
  
I nod. "I got the Daughters back. As long as they don't see me drunk."  
  
"Well, the easiest way to accomplish that is to not get drunk."  
  
"You're going to help me with that, right?"  
  
"That's why I'm getting your token. But I don't want you to yell at me if I have to put a stop to you drinking."  
  
"I'll try, Effie."  
  
She nods and heads for the elevator, but turns around before she gets there. "Haymitch, I really do wish you'd stop drinking. Not just during the Games."  
  
She leaves without saying anything else. It's the most serious thing she's said to me in several years. Mostly, she's just given up on me.  
  
I stare at the bar for a long time. If I drink tonight, no one will know any better.  
  
Except me. And it will be much easier to start drinking tomorrow.  
  
I take the elevator back downstairs and go out to the courtyard. The fresh air, tinged with the smell of the lake, wakes me up. Beetee and Wiress are sitting by the fountain. I join them.  
  
"That was some show," Beetee says.  
  
"Cinna's brilliant."  
  
Wiress giggles oddly. "We don't know how the fire worked. We were trying to figure it out."  
  
I shrug. "No idea."  
  
"So, how _is_ the 'Girl on Fire'?" Beetee asks. "How's she going to handle all this?"  
  
"Well, her appetite seems fine," I say. "I think she ate her own body weight at dinner."  
  
"But what's she _like_?" Beetee leans forward, his face serious. "A lot of people are watching her."  
  
"I know. But I don't know her very well yet. She's strong. She's been supporting her family. I don't know how she'll be on camera." I look at them. "The boy -- who, just for the record, was _also_ on fire -- is going to be good in the interviews. He'll be good with an ally to talk to. What do you think?"  
  
"I'll talk to Onnisey," Beetee says. "I know he wants allies, but I think he's been trying to think of a way to impress the Careers. He thinks they'll keep him fed."  
  
"More likely, they'll put a knife in his back."  
  
"I thought you were going to keep yours paired, anyway."  
  
"I am. I'm going to tell them to stay together in training. But I have a feeling Katniss is going to want to go it alone in the arena."  
  
" _Why_?" Beetee asks. "People with allies get more screen time. It's more interesting to film them when they have other people to talk to."  
  
"Yeah. But then the other people tend to die." I look at Wiress. "How about Nonni? Is she as smart as you?"  
  
"Mmm." Wiress bobs her head back and forth, her gesture for _so-so_. "She likes the boy, though," she says, and giggles. "Your boy. She says he's cute."  
  
I laugh.  
  
At least he's got one fan.  
  
I stay up late with Beetee and Wiress. About twenty minutes after I come down, Finnick arrives home from one of his "appointments" and joins us, and a few minutes after that, like clockwork, Johanna does.  
  
We sit by the fountain as the night moves on. All of our tributes are still alive, and not fighting yet. It's easy to set aside the fact that they'll be mortal enemies in a few days' time. For now, it's just us, our strange little family, talking in the starlight about nothing more scandalous than the boat Finnick plans to buy.  
  
Upstairs, the Girl on Fire sleeps on, with no idea how much she may have already changed the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the tributes start training, Haymitch gets to know them better.

Effie has left instructions with the Avoxes to give me one small flask of the awful cranberry and gin she gave me on the train, to last me until she gives them new orders. I try to countermand it (technically, I'm the boss, though Effie's the first escort in the history of the Games to take this seriously, as far as I know), but she's told them that the order comes from me, along with the order to not let me countermand it. It's Lavinia who gives it to me, and she has an extremely irritating smirk when she does so.  
  
I don't sleep particularly well that night, and I wake up as soon as I hear movement out in the sitting area. I fight to stay asleep a little longer, but it's no good. Usually, the tributes are too exhausted after the prep and parade to get up at the crack of dawn, but I guess Peeta's so used to it that he couldn't stop if he tried.  
  
I grab my flask, put it in the pocket of my robe, and go out to join him.  
  
He's watching television, a sketchbook balanced on his knees and a black pencil in his hand. The page is blank, other than a single, uncertain line.  
  
It's too early for the Capitol to be up, so it's not Games coverage. It's a cartoon that seems to involve a little girl in pigtails, an octopus Peacekeeper, and a dog flying a hovercraft. Peeta doesn't look terribly interested in it. He's already dressed in the black pants and burgundy tunic that Cinna sent over for training. Katniss will have one just like it waiting for her.  
  
"Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey." I sit down and watch the octopus fire several guns at a shifty looking guy in a tattered coat. "Exciting stuff."  
  
"Where are the parents?" Peeta asks. "I've been watching for an hour."  
  
"You have? Peeta, it's not even six."  
  
He shrugs. "It's almost eight o'clock at home. My brain's been up even longer than I have. Did I wake you up? I didn't mean to."  
  
"It's all right. I was half-awake, anyway."  
  
He nods and looks back at the television. "So… where are the grown-ups?"  
  
"I noticed that, too. Capitol parents -- I can't even start to explain. It doesn't make sense to me. They barely know each other."  
  
"That's weird. I mean, my mom pretty much hates me, but at least she _knows_ me." He shakes his head. "It must be hard work, getting people to live like that. They aren't very happy, are they?"  
  
"No, I don't think they are." I let the silence hang for a minute, then say, "How are you feeling?"  
  
"How am I supposed to feel?" He looks at me. "They haven't just been running cartoons. The chariot goes by every twenty minutes or so, along the bottom of the screen -- you know, saying that the day's coverage starts at ten. I _think_ I'm in it." He frowns. "It's what I wanted."  
  
I rub my head. "Come on downstairs. Let's get some fresh air."  
  
I don't bother getting dressed first. I doubt there's any state of disarray that people haven't seen me in over the last twenty-three years.  
  
Peeta gathers up the sketchbook and follows me quietly down to the garden. We sit by the fountain.  
  
"Is this loud enough?" he asks.  
  
I look up.  
  
"Cinna took me out on the roof last night. He said the fans are loud."  
  
"Oh. Right. Yeah, it's loud enough, as long as we're quiet. You can't be this far out of the apartment without me or the Games staff, though. Afraid you'll make a run for it." I take a good look at him. He looks distant and tired. "You don't have to play it this way, Peeta. You play it straight. I'll back you."  
  
"No, you won't. Do you think I don't know that you think she can win?"  
  
"If there were two mentors -- "  
  
"But there aren't. There's you. And you can't pick both of us. And that's okay. I want her to go home, so if you back her, it's like backing me."  
  
"Peeta --"  
  
"I don't want to die," he says. "That's all this is. I'm going to die, and I don't want to. I don't think any of the others do, either."  
  
"No, they don't."  
  
"So, I'll just be one of the twenty-three who doesn't get to live. As long as she does, I'm okay."  
  
"Is that what you were talking to Cinna about on the roof?"  
  
"No. He wanted to tell me that they, the press and so on, were going to concentrate more on Katniss -- that it was normal for the girl to get the attention after the parade, that kind of thing. He said Portia's going to style me to get some attention in the interviews." He laughs. "I think he was apologizing."  
  
"That's all he said?"  
  
"That, and that you sent him one of Dad's cakes. I told him I did the decorating. He told me it was good. He gave me this sketchbook." He holds it up. "He just ripped his drawings out and gave it to me, and a couple of charcoal pencils. Only I can't draw. I just sat there with the pencil and kind of stared at the paper."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. I have a sketchbook at home. I use every corner of both sides of every sheet to draw out the designs. It never had as many pages as this one, and it was really expensive. I keep it wrapped in plastic so nothing happens to it. But Cinna just _gave_ me one of his."  
  
I nod. "He's a decent guy. And paper's not quite as big a deal here." I watch him for a minute or so. He's just staring at the fountain. I sigh. "I'm going to try one more time. Peeta, you can play this to win. You don't have to make the sacrifice play. She might not even let you."  
  
"It probably won't be anything big. I'll probably just go down at the Cornucopia."  
  
"Not if you don't go anywhere near it, which you're not going to do."  
  
He doesn't answer. Instead, he opens the sketchbook. "Can I draw you?" he asks. "I mean, I can't think of anything else."  
  
"Like this? In my robe?"  
  
"It would just be your face, mostly."  
  
There are a hundred things I prefer to posing for pictures, but Peeta needs something to occupy his mind. I agree, and even let him put me in better sunlight. He draws for about forty-five minutes. This seems to free him up a little bit. He starts talking about the bakery, and what he'd be doing now at home. He tells me that he's been drawing on whatever scraps of paper he could find for as long as he can remember. He tells me about a lot of different people that he goes to school with, most of whom I wouldn't know if I fell over them. I ask if he knew Katniss before this.  
  
"Not many people know her," he says. "But I always _wished_ I did. I'm not the only one. People wonder about her." He smooths something on the drawing. "The only people I know she's friends with are Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne. He's the boy who carried Primrose away."  
  
I have a vague recollection of him -- I remember thinking that he'd better get back to the other eighteen-year-olds before Effie called the boy -- but I can't place his face. I'm less interested in what Peeta's telling me in words than what I'm learning from him. He's observant and interested in people. The first will serve him well in the arena. The second? If he gets allies, it will work for him on screen.  
  
He finishes the sketch. It's a good likeness, but I don't think his heart was in it. He seems a little apathetic toward it, at any rate. We go upstairs for breakfast.  
  
Katniss is up when we get there, and has started breakfast from the sideboard. She seems to be trying to pack on weight before the arena. It's not a bad plan, though she may regret it the first few days, when she's gotten herself used to being full and suddenly isn't. We all say good morning to each other, and eat in relative silence. Neither of them is exactly skimping, and I don't, either, though my excuse isn't as good as theirs.  
  
If they were in different years, I could bring them both home.  
  
I force it out of my head. It's not on the table. But I'm going to keep them both alive for as long as I possibly can. I guess if it comes down to resources, I'll put them with Katniss -- Peeta wants me to, anyway -- but there's more to the Games than sponsorship.  
  
When we slow down, I take a quick drink from the flask, then say, "So, let's get down to business. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."  
  
"Why would you coach us separately?" Katniss asks.  
  
I shrug. I know they aren't really competing with each other. He never will be, and she isn't there yet (though I suspect she thinks she is). "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," I suggest.  
  
"I don't have any secret skills," Peeta says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."  
  
This seems to flummox Katniss somehow, but she agrees to be trained together. I ask them what they can do, and end up as an eavesdropper at the strangest conversation I've ever heard at the Games. Peeta insists that he can only bake, then Katniss tells me that she's "all right" with a bow and arrow.  
  
That's when it gets strange.  
  
"She's excellent!" Peeta insists. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."  
  
Katniss recoils. "What are you doing?"  
  
"What are _you_ doing?" Peeta looks at me "If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."  
  
Her eyes widen, then she turns on him furiously. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing."  
  
I put my hands to my head. They are practically screaming at each other. Peeta's determined that strength isn't as helpful as being able to use a weapon. Katniss says -- though it's more like an accusation -- that he's a wrestler, and only his own brother has ever beaten him. He dismisses it. She says that he'll be able to win if he just gets a knife, and she'll die if someone jumps her.  
  
"But you won't!" he yells. "You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say goodbye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!"  
  
I know this, of course. I'd assumed, when Danny told me, that it was _his_ interpretation, but if anything, Peeta seems to have taken it even more literally.  
  
I hate Mirrem Mellark.  
  
"Oh, she meant you," Katniss says, waving it off.  
  
"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' _She_ is."  
  
Katniss's strange fury dies suddenly. She looks shocked, but not entirely surprised. When she speaks, her voice is small and far away. "But only because someone helped me."  
  
Peeta looks at her hands and I realize that somewhere along the line, he's helped her before, in some way so important that the surly, ill-tempered girl disappears completely in the face of it.  
  
Neither of them offers an explanation. Peeta just tells her that people will always help her.  
  
"She has no idea," he tells me. "The effect she can have."  
  
I'm not sure what to say to this. She certainly has an effect on Peeta, and she certainly caught the crowd's attention last night. And mine on the reaping stage.  
  
And the Capitol's. And the districts'.  
  
_Did you know that Katniss Everdeen is being called 'the Girl on Fire'?_  
  
I think about Beetee asking about her, and not Peeta. I think about the way the crowd saluted her.  
  
There's something there.  
  
Amusingly, she seems to take Peeta's comment as a personal insult, and glowers at him across the table.  
  
Well, _I'm_ amused, anyway. I don't need to wait for Effie to arrive to know that she'd be horrified, and she'd probably be as right as she is when she corrects me. We're going to have to work on Katniss Everdeen's wounded pride before the end.  
  
I think about the two of them. This strange dynamic is different from anything else I've worked with. The old rules apply, of course -- I tell them not to demonstrate their best skills in front of the other tributes, and save them for the private sessions -- but it seems to me that I may need some new rules for them, aside from just visually pairing them. I think I need to drive this as far as I can. It will bring sponsors for both of them, and make it even harder for the audience to deal with a choice.  
  
"One last thing," I say. "In public, I want you by each other's side every minute."  
  
"But we can learn more if we go to different stations -- "  
  
"But we have to be against -- "  
  
I interrupt their objections "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said. You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."  
  
They disappear to their rooms. I sit down on the couch to think. I feel like I've been sent up into the arena with a loaded machine gun, but I haven't the first idea how to fire it, and if I don't figure it out, they could both be cut down while I'm still standing there staring at it stupidly.  
  
I'm still thinking when Effie arrives at nine-forty-five, wearing my old district token. She doesn't comment on it. I hand her my flask, and she seems pleased to find that there are still a few swallows left in it. She goes to the bar and refills it.  
  
I go into my room to get cleaned up and dressed, and by the time I'm done, she's taken the kids downstairs. She comes back up while the Avoxes are clearing away breakfast.  
  
"They're eager this year," she says. "Goodness, it's still not ten, and we were the last ones down."  
  
"Their mentors probably told them to get there as early as possible to try and intimidate Katniss after the parade. Did it work?"  
  
"That's certainly devious," she says. "Really, Haymitch."  
  
"Was she intimidated?"  
  
"They were both nervous." She grabs a melon from the sideboard before it's taken away and starts eating. "Why did Cinna dress them alike?"  
  
"I'm keeping them together as a team," I tell her.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Just a thought."  
  
She takes a bite. "I like it."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"It feels nice. Like they're friends."  
  
"They might be. I don't know. There's something odd there."  
  
"Maybe they're secretly in love," Effie suggests lightly.  
  
"I don't think they know each other all that well."  
  
"Neither did you and your ally at first."  
  
"We weren't secretly in love."  
  
She grins. "Well, maybe _you_ weren't."  
  
"She wasn't, either," I say. This is true -- Maysilee's feelings weren't very secret at all. She told me that she thought my girl was the luckiest girl in the world. She was strange that way.  
  
I shake my head. Maysilee seems to be everywhere this year. Ghosts.  
  
And the pin, of course. The damned _pin_.  
  
"Now, I've been taking calls at my place. That's why I was a few minutes late today. There were so many I could actually weed out the -- "  
  
"Low pledges?"  
  
"The ones that seemed _off_ ," she says. "There were a good few of them, too, but we don't need their sort, not this year. I took ten small sponsorships over the phone, and you have four meetings today with bigger sponsors." She hands me a schedule and the list of pledges she's already gotten. "I gave you some time for lunch -- I know you don't like meeting over meals -- but I don't know if you'll have a lot of time to watch them train."  
  
"I've had worse problems. I'll just talk to them about it." I look over at Peeta's sketchbook, left casually on an end table. His picture of me looks back blandly. "We're on the same page about keeping them together, then?" I ask.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
"I need you to get them as polished as possible for the public appearances. After the parade, they're being watched carefully. Peeta's not going to be a problem, but Katniss can get a little surly."  
  
"I've noticed. She snapped at me on the train, you know."  
  
I have no doubt that Effie said something tactless to precipitate this. Since she went back to Capitol Dreams to be "cured" of the grievous affliction of actually caring about people, she's had a very bad sense of timing and a tin ear. But she's not the only one in the Capitol with those problems, and Katniss _can't_ snap at all of them. Before the Games begin, the sponsorships are still theoretical. Until the gong rings in the arena, they can back out. They usually don't, and my regulars never do, but new sponsors tend to be skittish, and the ones who were charmed by her in the parade aren't going to like her when she's not throwing kisses.  
  
"Well, I'm not the best example for her," I say. "So, you make sure she knows how to smile and do all those annoying things you make me do for sponsors."  
  
"I imagine I'll have about as easy a time of it with her."  
  
"Most likely." I read the list of new sponsors. "Speaking of annoying things to do with sponsors, anything I need to know about these before I go?"  
  
She doesn't have anything specific. All four are new to District Twelve, and two are new to Games sponsorship altogether. One of these, the owner of a major department store, may be envisioning a line of flaming clothes for next season.  
  
I go to my morning meetings. The sponsors are enthusiastic, and mostly nice, though I think Effie's judgment is a little off on a banker who's showing far too much interest in Katniss's personal life. At least I can very honestly tell him that I have no idea whatsoever about it.  
  
I meet Chaff and Seeder for lunch at a restaurant near Games headquarters. Chaff's tribute, Thresh, is distinctly uninterested in alliances.  
  
"The boy's about as social as a rock," he says. "Strong as an ox, but he's going to be a challenge for the cameras."  
  
"I know what you mean," I say.  
  
"Your boy?" Seeder asks. "He seemed pleasant, from what I saw in training this morning."  
  
"He means the girl," Chaff says.  
  
"The one throwing kisses around?"  
  
"No, the one in the gym this morning. Didn't you see her? She's keeping to herself, only talking to her district partner, and scowling a lot. Basically, she's Haymitch in a pigtail. No one wants to see that."  
  
"Very funny," I say.  
  
"Who's joking?"  
  
Seeder dismisses this with a wave. "Rue wants to meet her. She liked her in the reaping."  
  
"Probably wishes her sister had stepped up for her," I say. "Poor kid."  
  
"No. It's not that. I mean, no one wants to be here. But Rue _is_ an older sister. I think she sees Katniss as a kindred spirit. She said she'd have done that for any of her sisters."  
  
"Does she want an alliance?" I ask. It occurs to me that, while Katniss wouldn't want an alliance for her own benefit, she might well take an alliance that she'd see as taking care of someone.  
  
_Maybe_.  
  
Seeder promises to ask Rue after training.  
  
After lunch, I do my two afternoon meetings, then go back to my room and call Merle in Twelve to see if I can get some background on Katniss. He doesn't know much. He calls Madge to the phone. I know her a little bit from spending time with her parents, but I am surprised by her vehemence. She reminds me of Maysilee.  
  
Again.  
  
"Katniss is amazing," she says. "She keeps her family together. And she's smart. I work with her on a lot of school projects. She acts dumb sometimes, but don't let her fool you."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"A lot of people admire her. They don't say it, exactly, but they do. She…" Madge stops, and I guess she realizes that she's on a monitored line. "She knows a lot of adults, too. You remember Greasy Sae? And Ripper?"  
  
I raise my eyebrows. Denizens of the Hob. Katniss must trade there, which takes a bit of savvy. "I know them."  
  
"I think they're talking about raising money for her. They loved her dad, and they love her, too."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
Madge looks around a little, then says, "I gave her a district token. Just a pin… a pin I had lying around." She gives me a very significant looking frown.  
  
"I saw it," I say.  
  
"Will she be able to wear it in the arena?"  
  
Maysilee wasn't able to, but then, when Maysilee had it, we didn't have a rebel Gamemaker in a decision-making position. "I think so," I say.  
  
"Good. I hope it means something."  
  
"It does," I say.  
  
She nods, and lets her father back on the line.  
  
I ask about the families. They're worried, of course, and the reporters have been hanging on them more than usual after the parade. That will probably last until they're called home at the end of the opening events, not to return until the final eight. Prim and Peeta's brother Edder are back at school, and everyone's fussing over them. People are checking on Ruth regularly. The bakery is open, and Danny and Mir are "the same as ever," though he mentions in a guarded way that Danny seems to be spending a lot of time with the oldest son, Jonadab, who got married and moved out. I'm guessing that as soon as the cameras are gone, Danny will be over there permanently.  
  
I think about the sharp pain in Peeta's voice when he mentioned his mother. I think the best thing that woman could have done for her family would have been to stow away on a train and never set foot in Twelve again.  
  
When I finish talking to them, I head out to the living room. There's not enough time left in the day to observe training, so I watch the coverage, which is mostly parade recaps. They do show silent footage from the gym, or, more accurately, from the cafeteria, taken during lunch. The Careers are in their usual rowdy pack, but I can see Katniss and Peeta sitting together. Peeta is showing Katniss the different breads on the table. She laughs.  
  
They cut to coverage about Capitol gambling.  
  
A few minutes later, the elevator comes up, and my tributes return from their first day of training. Katniss seems mentally exhausted. I guess I understand that. I am, too. Putting up with other people all day can be a chore.  
  
Peeta's energized by it, though. While dinner is served, he talks about the other tributes they saw, and the things they did. He still has stains on his arm from the camouflage booth, where he apparently put his cake-decorating skills to work. Katniss manages to open her mouth enough to say that he's talented. I'm not sure how useful painting himself is going to be, but at least he doesn't dismiss it out of hand, so I try to be encouraging.  
  
Effie and I start the performance drills that night. It's more than I usually do, but then, I've never had the cameras focused this heavily on my tributes in the pre-Games events. Peeta puts up with everything with good grace. Katniss does as she's told, but I can see her chafing at it. By the time we send them to bed, I think she's ready to kill me.  
  
"She has to smile," Effie says. "We have to get her to remember that."  
  
"I don't smile much. Didn't smile much in my Games, either."  
  
"You also didn't have many sponsors." She sits down. "They want to like her, Haymitch. That'll be a big advantage. But it's not a guarantee."  
  
"Well then," I say, "I guess we have our work cut out for us."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch discusses tokens, alliances, and media strategies for the Games.

I'm summoned by the Gamemakers early in the morning -- well, ten-thirty, which is early by Games standards -- on the second day of training.  
  
I'm not the only one. When I get there, they're finishing up a meeting with Cashmere, from District One. I can see through their glass walls that there's quite a confrontation going on, but the soundproofing is solid and I can't hear a thing. Seneca Crane is holding up something small and shiny. There are several little boxes beside him at the table.  
  
District tokens, I realize. Other mentors will probably be called in as well. I've been vaguely aware of these meetings in past years, but this is the first time I've been called to one. None of my tributes has carried anything into the arena that the Gamemakers felt a need to question.  
  
Until now, of course.  
  
The elevator opens, and Cinna comes out. He comes over to me. "The pin _is_ her token, isn't it?" he asks. "I found it on the blouse she wore into the Capitol, but she hasn't mentioned anything."  
  
I nod. "A friend gave it to her just before we left."  
  
"A mockingjay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He smiles. "I read a poem once about a mockingjay. The poet was standing at the edge of a cliff at the end of the world, and he saw one flying just out of reach."  
  
"I wouldn't quote that poem in there," I say. I have no idea how my scribbled book of handwritten poems ended up in Cinna's hands. Gia took it during my Victory Tour and gave it to Plutarch, and that's the last I heard of it. Apparently, it's been making the rounds. The mockingjay poem was for Maysilee. I wanted to tell her about the bird I saw just beyond the edge of the arena.   
  
I was too late. By the time I saw her, she was bleeding out. I don't remember most of the poems I wrote in a drunken haze that fall after my girl died, but I've dreamed about the mockingjay. Maysilee thought that mockingjays proved that the Capitol couldn't keep its grip on power. She wasn't the only one. The idea of the mockingjay as a direct taunt to the Capitol has had something of a grip on most rebels I know. Mockingjay feathers have quietly appeared (and quickly disappeared, once acknowledged) on people who want to identify themselves as rebels.  
  
I don't think the Capitol has taken any notice of it.  
  
Yet.  
  
There hasn't been any sign of it, anyway.  
  
Cashmere comes out, her jaw clenched, and closes the door behind her.  
  
"What happened?" I ask her.  
  
"Glimmer's friends made a ring with a poisoned spike in it," she says. "She says she didn't know about it. I just spent forty-five minutes convincing the Gamemakers not to send Peacekeepers to interrogate everyone who said goodbye to her."  
  
"She lost the token?" Cinna asks.  
  
She nods dully. "I should have checked it when she was showing it off. They fined me two months' salary."  
  
I doubt any of us believes that the girl didn't know about the poisoned spike, especially Cashmere. I'd guess that the friends all went in on it together, to send as a token if any of them "won" the reaping.  
  
I’m reasonably sure that Madge Undersee didn't poison Katniss's pin, but there's a chance that the Gamemakers could realize it carries something even more dangerous.  
  
The door opens, and a junior Gamemaker beckons us inside. Plutarch is sitting a few seats down from the Head Gamemaker's spot, but he doesn't particularly acknowledge me. This may or may not have anything to do with keeping up appearances. Aside from Plutarch and Crane, I recognize quite a few of the older Gamemakers, who I've dealt with over the years on other matters.  
  
Seneca Crane has the mockingjay pin in his hands. He smiles.  
  
"Mr. Abernathy," he says. "I don't believe we've had the chance to speak much before."  
  
"I try to stay out of trouble," I say.  
  
"Yes, I'm sure you do." He holds up the pin. "This is your female tribute's district token?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"The pin is rather sharp."  
  
I roll my eyes. "It's also an inch long, not very strong, and has no grounding. Totally useless as a weapon."  
  
"What about poison?"  
  
"It's quite flimsy," Cinna says. "I examined it before I gave it to you. I think the pin is actually gold, which is a soft metal. I think the pin would bend before it could go deep enough to cause serious damage."  
  
I watch the Gamemakers. If they have anything close to as toxic as the fruits in my arena, a scratch could at least cause severe illness. A look passes among them -- clearly, there are some toxic substances in there -- but they don't seem overly concerned. They're probably right. I hope Katniss isn't stupid enough to engage someone in combat close enough to stick them with a hinged pin, no matter what toxins are around. She'd get her neck snapped before she could do anything, though I decide not to mention this.  
  
A woman sitting on Crane's left -- her name is Genesia Kellogg, I think -- clears her throat and says, "There's also the matter of the symbol. The mockingjay."  
  
Several of the other Gamemakers look genuinely confused by this, but not all of them.  
  
I arrange my face in what I hope is polite befuddlement. "Sorry, Ma'am?"  
  
She narrows her eyes. "What does the symbol _mean_ , Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
"To Katniss?"  
  
"To District Twelve." She waits a moment. "Was it, or was it not, a symbol used by seditionists?"  
  
"It's just something Katniss's friend gave her -- "  
  
"That’s not what was asked."  
  
"If I may," Plutarch interrupts, "I believe you're right. It was, in fact, used for that purpose."  
  
I try not to react to this, though my instinct is to throttle him. The last thing I wanted was for anyone in the Capitol to make that connection.  
  
"That _is_ a problem," Crane says.  
  
I shake my head. "If it ever was a symbol, it was a long time ago. I doubt Katniss has the slightest idea. To her, it's a gift from a friend. Mockingjays are everywhere around District Twelve." Inspiration strikes. "I heard somewhere that her daddy used to sing to them. The two of them were close. I imagine that's what it means to her. Just bringing a little strength into the arena with her."  
  
Kellogg shakes her head. "What it means to Katniss Everdeen is not the relevant question here. I am concerned about the message it communicates."  
  
Plutarch laughs. "Genny, really. This is my area, if you recall. It _was_ a rebel symbol, but it was only used by a handful of teenage thrill-seekers, well over two decades ago. I know… I was one of them. Even I barely recognized it until you mentioned it."  
  
I re-evaluate Plutarch's approach. It's better than mine, when I think about it. Hoping it would slip by unnoticed was probably too much to ask. But acknowledging it and then devaluing it… that should do the trick, if I don't push too hard.  
  
"Can't say _I've_ heard of it since I was a kid," I say.  
  
Crane pushes a few buttons on the table in front of him. "I'll run it through the databases. If it really hasn't been seen in so long, I can't see the harm in it."  
  
"But -- " Kellogg starts.  
  
"The audience adored her action in stepping up for her sister," Crane says. "I think they'd eat up a connection to her father. There's no reason to reject that if there's nothing to the symbolism."  
  
We all wait awkwardly while the computer scans through its image banks. I guess this is when I'll find out if we're on the Capitol's radar.   
  
It takes about five minutes. Crane watches his screen for no particular reason -- I can see from here that all it's doing is flashing a "wait" signal -- then looks up. "There's nothing here," he says. "I don't see any reason to deny the token." He hands it to Cinna. "Just to be on the safe side, blunt the end of it a little bit."  
  
"All right," Cinna says.  
  
"Good, then." Crane looks out through the glass wall. "Well, that's that. I see our ten-forty-five is already here. Would you be so kind as to send her in?" he asks me.  
  
I stand there stupidly for a minute. I guess I expected more of a fuss, even if I didn't want it. I wonder briefly if the Head Gamemaker is a rebel, though it's unlikely. I'll ask Plutarch. Finally, I just shake it off and thank Seneca Crane. Cinna and I leave as he pulls out another box. Enobaria is outside the door. I send her in.  
  
I can't really discuss this in any depth with Cinna here in the Viewing Center, so we just talk shop while we walk. He's deduced that at least part of the Games uniform, most likely a jacket, will be made of a coarse material that won't snag if pierced with a dull pin. Neither of us can make much of that.  
  
The sponsor meetings are slower today. The further we get from the parade, the more people are watching the leaked "security footage" from training, where Katniss is obeying me, for the most part, about not showing off her skills, though she does go through several survival stations with high marks. She hasn't used a ranged weapon where the cameras can see her. Peeta hasn't lifted weights, but he has flattened a couple of hand-to-hand combat trainers. He's starting to pick up a steady group of fans, though not among the high-rollers. The ones most likely to be impressed by his performance in combat are more impressed by Cato, the boy from District Two. Peeta's picking up fans who are charmed by his smile and the way he talks to Katniss in the footage.   
  
I watch a little of it. He's definitely coming off more charming than she is. They seem to like replaying the bit where he shows her the bread and she laughs obediently.  
  
Finnick tells me at lunch that Annie's tribute, a girl named Charlotte, wants Peeta to join the Career group. I promise to bring it up, but I don't intend to encourage it. I don't want him getting cocky and thinking he can handle the Cornucopia.  
  
I float the idea just before dinner, while Katniss is showering. He's not interested.  
  
"Char's nice," he says. "But they don't want Katniss. They think all she can do is find plants."  
  
"That's a pretty useful skill."  
  
"They want people who can bash their way up to the Cornucopia and get the food that the Gamemakers leave."  
  
"Which you're _not_ going to do," I remind him.  
  
"Don't worry. I'm not in a rush to start killing people. Or to get killed."  
  
"Good." I take a drink from the flask. "When did you get a chance to talk to them, anyway?"  
  
"I just talked to Char while Katniss was in the bathroom. She heard me talking about the bread yesterday and wanted to know how I knew about it." He shrugs. "How many more chances am I going to get to meet people? It seemed like a good opportunity."  
  
I send him to his room to change for dinner, then meet with Effie about what we need to be doing with them. She seems more focused than she's been in a while. I wonder if she's off her pills, or if she's switched them again. Whatever she's doing, I hope she'll keep doing it.  
  
When the kids come out to dinner, we start the training. Katniss doesn't make small talk, which I appreciate. "Since you don't want us at the Cornucopia," she starts out over soup, "how should we get weapons?"  
  
"You can make some, but keep them defensive. Until you can get a bow and arrow, stay away from the other tributes."  
  
"But right now," Effie says, "we need to talk about your camera presence."  
  
"I want to talk about -- "  
  
"She's right," I tell her. "You can survive. I've seen what you've been doing at the plant stations. But you're going to need things, and honestly, you're not coming off all that well."  
  
"But -- "  
  
"No buts," I say. "I get it. The last thing you want to worry about is whether or not they like you. I didn't want to think about it, either. But you have to."  
  
Effie nods. "You need to remember -- both of you -- that at any given moment, you may be on live television. There won't be any way for you to know."  
  
"But you can bet that the cameras are on you, whether you're being shown or not…"  
  
Katniss resists this line of mentoring for most of the meal. I don't blame her, and I do understand her. But that doesn't change the facts of the Games… or the fact that she's caught the imagination of the underground. Can't forget that.  
  
I think about Chaff calling her "Haymitch with a pigtail," and I have a hard time not seeing it. She _is_ like me. She's been taking care of her family, she doesn't feel like she has time for this nonsense, and she knows perfectly well that she's playing against the Gamemakers.  
  
Unfortunately, the pigtail makes a difference. What the audience would tolerate -- sort of -- in me, they'll treat as a serious social failing in a girl. She _has_ to warm up.  
  
Through the meal, we talk about what they should do to hold interest if they're alone (which Katniss insists she will be), and how to interact with anyone they come across that's not actively trying to kill them. After we eat, Effie runs them through scenarios, especially about receiving gifts in the arena. "People will want to know that you appreciate them," she says. "They'll want to feel that they've made a difference."  
  
"Which they _will_ have," I point out.  
  
"But direct thank-yous come off oddly," Effie tells them. "Some tributes try it, but it always sounds rehearsed. Let's practice how you'll express gratitude if someone sends you a parachute…"  
  
Peeta's a natural at this, both in the parachute exercise and the chance-encounter-with-another-tribute exercise. Effie plays the role of a tough girl (hilariously) and he flirts with her. I play a younger boy (not much more successfully) who just doesn't want any trouble, and he tries to reassure me that he doesn't mean any harm and plans to go on his way. He switches roles easily and tries to bring Katniss out, but she's not one for role-playing, much to Effie's frustration. She manages a few stilted, scripted-sounding lines when Effie feeds them to her, and I have the impression that she really is trying, but pretending is not her strong suit. I know from the reaping that she'll do better when she has something real to react to -- she connected with the whole country then -- but at the moment, it's a little worrying.  
  
By the end of the night, even Peeta's patience with us is running thin, so I signal to Effie to let up and let them go to bed. They'll need some rest before individual evaluations tomorrow.  
  
Effie and I stay up for a while and watch an inane movie on television. It's about a boy and a stray cat, and it has nothing to do with the Games. It's mind-numbing and oddly comforting to just sit there with her, at opposite ends of the couch, not talking.   
  
I drink the rest of the flask. It's keeping the worst of the physical cravings at bay, and I've been too busy for the rest until now, and now I'm actually feeling all right. If I could work sixteen hour days then just relax at night all the time, maybe I wouldn't need to drink.  
  
When the movie is over, Effie gets up and goes to bed, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she passes.  
  
I think about following her. I doubt she'd kick me out, and I don't want to do anything more complicated than sleeping at the moment, but in the end, I don't do it. I don't want to wake up next to the chattering robot that she might well be in the morning.  
  
It turns out to be a good choice. Whatever she takes, she takes it in the morning, and at breakfast, her eyes are too bright and too wide, and she's focused completely on Katniss's chipping nail polish.  
  
"Individual assessments today," I remind the kids. "Katniss, it's time to break out the bow. Has anyone else been using it in training?"  
  
"Glimmer did," Peeta offers. "But she's nowhere near as good as Katniss."  
  
Katniss doesn't bother to argue.  
  
"Other mentors may have given their tributes the same instruction I gave you," I tell her. "But the bow really isn't very common. You may have a unique skill there, so show off."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And Peeta, throw the heaviest weights you can. Give them a show. They're going to be bored by the time they get to you, so turn on the charm while you're at it."  
  
He nods.  
  
They head downstairs.  
  
Ten minutes later, I get a message to meet with Seeder. I'm glad to get away from Effie, who has been watching Games coverage and speculating about how the other interview outfits will compare to Cinna's work.  
  
Seeder is waiting for me in the mentors' lounge, picking at a bowl of fruit.   
  
"Rue wants an alliance?" I ask, sitting down.  
  
"Maybe. Maybe in the arena, we'll see what happens. But I advised her against it."  
  
I frown. "Why?"  
  
"It's nothing against Katniss. But Rue's skill…" She looks around to see if anyone's listening. "She moves like a cat… no, not even that. She moves like a bird. I don't think an alliance is going to help her."  
  
"You think Katniss will slow her down?"  
  
Seeder nods. "Not deliberately. But it's a very individual skill, and I don't want her to lose her only advantage."  
  
"So why are we here?"  
  
She takes a while to answer, studying her fruit like she has a script written on it. Finally she says, "Rue's been shadowing Katniss all through training."  
  
"You mentioned something like that."  
  
"I think she may shadow her in the arena, too. I don't think she has any other real plan." She taps her fork on her bowl, then looks up, letting out a frustrated breath. "I'm just going to come out with it, Haymitch. I can't get a read on your girl. Can she be trusted, or should I tell Rue to stay back?"  
  
"Oh," I say. I can't think of anything else. Seeder is one of my oldest friends. I know Katniss is surly, but I don't find her hard to read at all. She's an open book.  
  
At least to me.  
  
I wonder if Seeder thought I was unreadable. Chaff certainly didn't think so. Then again, he was actually paying attention to me when I arrived.  
  
"Well?" she asks.  
  
"You want to know if the girl who was willing to sacrifice her life for her twelve-year-old sister is going to stab Rue in the back while she's sleeping?"  
  
"Something like that." She puts down her fork. "Haymitch, you know it's not unheard of. The first year you mentored, an ally turned on your tribute."  
  
"I know. But… I'm not going to push someone at you that would do that. And you know that's not how I mentor."  
  
"Are you sure about what she's going to do?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm sure."  
  
We sit uncomfortably for a while, then she says, "I'm sorry. But I had to ask. Rue's small, she's not all that strong, and she has a bad case of hero worship. I can't risk someone taking advantage of that."  
  
"Yeah. Of course."  
  
I stay with Seeder while she eats the rest of her breakfast and we talk about other things. We part pleasantly enough, but I'm shaken. I can't entirely put my finger on why.  
  
I decide that it's Katniss.  
  
If even Seeder can't see who she is, then I'm going to have to double down on getting her ready for the public.  
  
I stop at the bar in the Viewing Center. I know it's a bad idea, but I want to still my mind a little bit.  
  
Effie has left instructions to not serve me. The bartender offers to let me bribe him, but the brief stop is enough to bring me to my senses. This is not the time for it.  
  
I'm not in the best of moods for the rest of the day, and I probably snap at Effie more than I need to when she tells me that she's set up a sponsor meeting for me. How I get through the meeting (with a silly young Capitol couple who've just won money in a gardening competition), I don't know, but somehow, I walk away with a small donation pledge.  
  
By the time I get back, Peeta is in his evaluation. The other districts are done, and the mentors' lounge is abandoned.   
  
I go upstairs. Peeta doesn't have a lot to say about his assessment, though Effie is full of questions. It was apparently "all right."  
  
The elevator door opens a few minutes later, and I say, "Hey, sweetheart, how'd it -- "  
  
But Katniss runs, weeping, through the living room, and I hear the door slam behind her.  
  
Peeta and Effie and I all call to her, but there's no response.  
  
"What on Earth is that about?" Effie asks.  
  
"I'm guessing something went wrong at the assessment," I say, and follow her. The door is locked, and I can hear her sobbing on the other side. I wonder if she missed her shots, but that feels wrong. This crying sounds more like the whole thing is finally catching up to her.  
  
Effie comes up beside me and knocks. "Honey, you need to come out so we can talk!"  
  
"Come on, sweetheart," I say. "Nothing's that bad."  
  
No answer.  
  
We keep trying for a little while, but it's no good.  
  
I stop knocking and look at Effie. "Let her cry it out, I guess," I say.  
  
"How bad do you think it is?" she asks quietly.  
  
"No idea. I guess we'll find out."  
  
A bad assessment can hurt with sponsors, but in the arena, it only hurts if it actually means something. Freezing up in front of a judging panel doesn't necessarily mean freezing up in a real survival situation.  
  
Cinna and Portia come by for dinner. They saw Plutarch downstairs, but didn't talk to him. Apparently, he's covered with red punch. Cinna says it's a good look for him.  
  
Effie finally manages to coax Katniss out of her room just as dinner is being served. Her face is blotchy and swollen. No one comments on it.  
  
I give her enough time to feel like we aren't all staring at her. I figure she's probably a little self-conscious. So I keep up with Cinna's small talk about a stylists' meeting and Effie and Peeta's conversation about a singer they both like, at least until Katniss stops looking like she wants to crawl under the table.  
  
"Okay," I finally say, "enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"  
  
Peeta jumps in first. "I don't know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me."  
  
It's a familiar story. We're last, and they've spent the day drinking and feasting while they judge kids who will mostly be dead soon. They ignored Peeta entirely, then said he could go.  
  
I look at Katniss. "And you, sweetheart?"  
  
Her eyes flash at the word, and she straightens up.  
  
"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers," she says.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch prepares his tributes for the interviews. Peeta is dream for the cameras. Katniss... isn't.

"I shot an arrow at them," Katniss repeats. "Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!"  
  
I press my lips together, trying very hard not to laugh at this image.  
  
"And what did they say?" Cinna asks.  
  
"Nothing." Katniss shrugs. "Or I don't know. I walked out after that."  
  
Effie puts her hand to her heart. "Without being dismissed?"  
  
"I dismissed myself."  
  
"Well," I manage to say, "that's that." I pick up a roll and butter it. If I look at her, I'm going to start laughing.  
  
"Do you think they'll arrest me?" she asks.  
  
"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage."  
  
"What about my family? Will they punish them?"  
  
I look up, the wild laughter inside me backing off a little. I think about my house, collapsed at the end of the Seam. If she wins and keeps up this attitude, she'll need to worry. But for now, it's more or less private, just between her and the Gamemakers. They might not even tell Snow. I try to explain this to her, and she looks at least a little bit heartened, though I do remind her that they'll most likely make things difficult in the arena.  
  
"They've already promised to do that to us anyway," Peeta says.  
  
"Very true." I pick up a pork chop with my fingers and dunk it in the wine Effie has allowed me to have with dinner. It's not the approved method, and I can see Effie cringing, but I want to make sure Katniss relaxes. "What were their faces like?"  
  
"Shocked," she says. "Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."  
  
All thoughts of my fallen house disappear, and I think of Plutarch, drenched in punch. He needs to be drenched in punch more often. I laugh. Cinna picks it up immediately, and Peeta and Portia join us. Eventually, so does Katniss. Effie's lips are twitching. I can see a little of her in there, the old Effie, the one who was more involved with her life as our escort than her life in the Capitol.  
  
"Well, it serves them right!" she says. "It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." She looks around nervously. "I'm sorry, but that's what I think."  
  
I smile at her, and she finally gives in and laughs.  
  
After that, we all relax and eat. The kids are worried about their scores, of course (Katniss is convinced they'll punish her with a bad one), but on the whole, they're cheering each other up. Well, Peeta is cheering Katniss up, at any rate, and he seems to be cheered by his success at it.   
  
After years of practice, Effie and I don't need to think much to stretch out the meal until it's time for the scores to be announced. No reason for the tributes to sit in the living room biting their nails. I'm really not worried. Low scores wouldn't be a huge problem, and I really don't think it's one we'll need to deal with, anyway. The Gamemakers won't want to seem less than attuned to the public mood. Katniss and Peeta blew people away at the parade, and have been something of an item of interest during training. I doubt either of them will score under a six, no matter what the Gamemakers were paying attention to.  
  
The Career kids, as usual, end up with eights and nines and tens. The boy from District Two is one of the tens. I wonder what he did. The girl from One also gets a ten. Even the scrawny boy from Four gets an eight; I guess Finnick's been working hard with him on something. Beetee and Wiress's tributes pull fours. Johanna's girl gets a three (I can almost hear Jo a few floors below us, saying, "Hey, that's my score!"). Cecelia's girl gets a six, and Woof's boy gets a four. There are no real surprises until little Rue is given a seven. I guess Seeder was right about her amazing way of moving.  
  
We're last, of course. The scores are the only time the boy goes first. Peeta is given an eight, which is higher than even I'd anticipated. He looks shocked. He's in the Career range of scores.  
  
Then they give Katniss an eleven.  
  
Effie squeals. It's the highest score any tribute of ours has ever gotten. Katniss is flabbergasted.  
  
"Guess they liked your temper," I tell her. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."  
  
She looks at me oddly, and I wonder if she's realized yet that an eleven will paint a big target on her back. If she hasn't, she will soon. But for now, it means people are going to be watching her again, looking forward to her interview, wanting to know who the girl who was on fire really is.  
  
Cinna promises to deliver on a dress, but looks are going to be the least of Katniss Everdeen's interview problems.  
  
I shake my head. I'll let her enjoy it for now. Hell, I'll let _myself_ enjoy it for now. Even without the interview, she's going to have good sponsors, maybe enough to keep her fed.  
  
I'll worry about the rest of it tomorrow.  
  
The kids congratulate each other. When their eyes meet, I can see the knowledge that eventually dawns on each pair that comes here with me: That success for one is death for the other.  
  
Katniss goes to her room.  
  
"An eleven," Peeta muses. "I don't remember any elevens."  
  
"There've been a few," I say. "Not very many."  
  
"What did you get?"  
  
"A ten."  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"I stole their steak knife and put down all the trainers with it."  
  
He raises his eyebrows. "So that's why you weren't worried about what Katniss did."  
  
I nod. "If I can get close enough to steal weapons from their table, she can shoot at their pig."  
  
" _Really,_ " Effie says. "Have you always found it necessary to tweak their noses?"  
  
"Everyone needs a hobby," I tell her, and wink.  
  
She blushes a little bit for some reason, then says, "Well, you should remind Katniss that it's _your_ hobby. She can't tweak noses from the interview stage."  
  
"You don't think they'll like her?" Peeta asks, surprised. "Won't they like the… I don't know, her spirit?"  
  
"People want to like her because of everything they've seen," Effie says, "but really, she tends to be very abrasive in person. It's not ladylike."  
  
"They're worried about _that_?" Peeta shakes his head. "That doesn't make sense. The Career girls always get attention, and they're --"  
  
"In a pack that gets attention for being aggressive and deadly," I say. "I don't think she'll be able to do that. Which brings us to you -- what are you going to do? I don't think anyone will buy you as a killer, no matter what your score was."  
  
"That's good."  
  
"Not really."  
  
"What, she's supposed to look like a glass figurine, and I'm supposed to be a thug?"  
  
"No. But -- "  
  
"I'm not doing that."  
  
"Peeta, you -- "  
  
"No. And you said I wouldn't pull it off, anyway."  
  
I sigh. "Fine. Okay. But what _are_ you going to do?"  
  
He thinks, then stands up. "There's something I need to decide. Can I tell you tomorrow?"  
  
"What do you need to decide?"  
  
"Nothing much," he says. "Just who I'm going to be for the rest of my life." He smiles and goes to bed.  
  
"An _eleven_ ," Effie says when he's gone. "Oh, Haymitch, everyone's going to be watching her."  
  
"Yeah. And they'll want to like her, like you said."  
  
"Right." Effie goes to the bar and measures out my drinks for tomorrow. I will her to give me a little extra to get through interview prep, but she doesn't. "You're fond of her, aren't you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
She comes back and hands me the flask. "I've seen you through a lot of Games, Haymitch. I know you're fond of Danny's son, but it's the girl you're worrying about."  
  
"I'm worried about both of them," I say automatically, then look at her. "But yeah. She's something different. She can do this, Effie. I really believe it this year. And I don't want to be the one who gets her killed by not having her ready."  
  
"You won't be."  
  
We stay up a little while and watch the scores coverage. People are speculating about what Katniss might or might not have done to get her score. It ranges from the mundane assumption that she's good with weapons or stealth to the truly mythical. One old man -- who seems to be under the influence of something stronger than booze -- suggests that she can shoot fire from her fingertips and control the minds of the other tributes. As Effie expected, people are already speculating about what she's like, though at least there's nothing like Finnick's year, with all the wild storytelling that bore no relation whatsoever to reality.  
  
There's also talk about little Rue, and how she outscored much older tributes. It's less mythic, though people seem inclined to ascribe vaguely magical powers to her, like disappearing into the woodlands like a fairy. There doesn't seem to be much mystery about the Careers, or, for that matter, Peeta. They've all been shown in training, looking strong.  
  
Effie and I say goodnight around midnight. I hear the television in her room. I read for a while. It's a new detective series, as brainless as the rest of them. The detective this time is a fashion designer whose muse model is murdered, but the police don't believe him. They think it was an accident. He sets out to prove the murder. By the end of chapter three, I have it pretty well narrowed down to her brother and a wealthy fashion patron. The most interesting thing I've learned so far is the title, _Croquis_ , which is a new word to me. It means a sketchy drawing. I'll have to see if it's a word that Cinna uses.  
  
I toy with the idea that I could do it better. What if the detective himself is the murderer? Could I make that work? What if it's not a murder at all, and the police are right? What if she offended the president, or was secretly a rebel? What would the detective do if he found out? Would he become a rebel, too?  
  
Well, not if it's published in the Capitol, I guess. Controls are too tight here to do anything interesting. That's why I collect the illegal stuff. It floats around on the black market, and over the years, I've collected about forty books. They live under the floorboards of my house. Any one of them is more alive and dangerous than what I'm technically _allowed_ to read. Not one of them could be published in Panem today. I read them in secret in the dead of the night.   
  
I don't sleep well. The lack of booze is starting to catch up to me, along with the change from my usual sleeping times. In the Capitol, I usually have chemical help. This year, I'm fidgeting and nervous, and I have a brutal headache by three. I finally fall into a fitful sleep, filled with vividly nonsensical dreams. In one, Danny's parents have a bakery in the Capitol, and it's my job to fetch water from the lake, but it's not supposed to have any salt in it, so my job includes sifting it before they can use it, and putting the salt into canvas bags for later. I'm not very good at it, but they're patient.  
  
When I wake up, Peeta and Effie are watching a movie on television.   
  
With an unpleasant shock, I realize that it's one of Mimi Meadowbrook's. I always change the channel when these are on. I can't get the image of her dead in her garden out of my head. I asked Effie to send me the fountain statue that she wrote "Reaped" on just before she died. I stared at it for a long time when it came. A child and a mother, dancing in the rain. Reaped. I remember feeling a scream in my throat, and forcing it back. I was very drunk. When I sobered up, I carried the horrible thing up to my attic, where it still sits beside the piles of dusty plaques that I got on my Victory Tour. I should throw it out. I don't know why I asked for it in the first place.  
  
On screen, she is cheerfully going through the motions of one of her romantic comedies. She seems to be fighting an attraction to a man in a purple wig.  
  
Effie sees me and turns it off quickly.  
  
Peeta frowns, then says, "Hey."  
  
"Morning," I say. "Coffee?"  
  
"It's on the table," Effie says. "Sorry, I thought you were sleeping. Peeta wanted to watch movies."  
  
"It's fine," I tell her. I look at Peeta. "Did the movies help you make your decision?"  
  
He comes over to the table and starts getting some breakfast. "Yeah. I'll tell you about it later. We're doing interview training, right?"  
  
"We are."  
  
"I'll tell you then."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"But I was thinking… I don't know how Katniss will feel about it. I think maybe we should do the training separately."  
  
Effie, who has been putting fruit on her plate, stops and looks up. "But, Peeta, it's been going so well this way! I thought you liked her."  
  
"That's the problem," he says. "Anyway, I guess I'm making it a formal request."  
  
"I don't know…"  
  
"Look, I know you've been pairing us up. I think I might even know why. But I need to --" He stops and looks up.  
  
Katniss has come in from her room, looking sleepy. She comes to the table and piles food onto her plate. She seems to notice that we've all stopped talking, but doesn't comment on it.  
  
Finally, she takes a gulp of orange juice and, looking more awake, says, "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"  
  
"That's right," I tell her.  
  
She shrugs and gets back to eating. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time."  
  
I guess I could put a stop to it. I haven't agreed to anything with Peeta yet.  
  
But he's the tribute. He's the boss.  
  
"Well, there's been a change of plans," I say. "About our current approach."  
  
"What's that?" Katniss asks.  
  
I look at Peeta, then say, "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."  
  
Katniss stops eating. Her back straightens, and her mouth tightens in fury. She glares at Peeta for a moment, then abruptly changes her posture, slouching uncomfortably and putting on an affected show of nonchalance.   
  
"Good," she says. "So, what's the schedule?"  
  
I tell her that she'll start with Effie, to get her movement and posture right. The afternoon, she'll spend with me. I figure that way, if it's not going well, I can just keep her into the evening without worrying about having to get to Peeta later.  
  
We finish breakfast uncomfortably, and Katniss goes off with Effie.  
  
I look at Peeta, then take him into the private sitting room where we do the interview practice. He sits down in the easy chair.  
  
"All right," I tell him. "What's on your mind?"  
  
"I want them to like her. I want them to see what I see."  
  
"What _you_ see." I sit down across from him, on a fussy red couch. "And what do you see?"  
  
"I like her. I like her a _lot_. She's amazing. She's beautiful. She's strong. The way she takes care of her sister, and her mom… it's great." He looks away, a little embarrassed. "My dad told me that he and her mom used to have a thing. When I was little, I used to pretend that we were all friends. One big family, you know?"  
  
I can imagine that growing up with Mirrem would inspire fantasies about living in a simpler family. I'm still not sure where he's going. "Go on."  
  
"I want to tell everyone that I like her. That's where I want my interview to go."  
  
"I see."  
  
"You don't think it's a good idea?"  
  
I think it's a great idea for Katniss. If someone like Peeta adores her, the audience will reason out that she must be wonderful.   
  
For Peeta, it could go either way. In theory, it could make his quest interesting to them -- how will he handle loving someone when it's never going to be possible? In practice, there's a good chance that school girls will adore him, but the cynical intelligentsia will despise and ridicule him… and worse, not give him airtime.  
  
"You'll have to play it _exactly_ right," I say. "They're not going to care who you like if they don't like you first, so, if you don't mind, let's work on how we're going to get them to like _you_."  
  
"I didn't think about that."  
  
"That's why I'm the mentor around here."  
  
He nods. "Okay. Will Caesar Flickerman let me talk about that?"  
  
"Oh, Caesar will eat it up. Don't worry about Caesar. I'll meet with him while you're in prep, and he'll get you exactly where you need to go. He's a friend in the Capitol."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"He's definitely a good guy." I lean forward. "Now, how are we going to get you there?"  
  
We get to work. I don't need anything like four hours to get Peeta ready for an interview. He's more or less camera ready when he rolls out of bed in the morning. He talks easily about anything I ask him, and we end up just having a long conversation. He talks to me about school, his friends, the bakery, his brothers. He asks me to keep Caesar from asking about his parents. He wants me to give his love to his father "after" (and, he says reluctantly, his mother as well, he supposes), but he has no interest in airing the oddities of his family life on national television. I tell him he can lie.  
  
"I know I can. I don't want to. Not until it's time. I need to get some trust first."  
  
He doesn't explain this, and we go back to our aimless chat. We finally start laughing about how strange the Capitol can be. I realize that this is an easy in for him. Caesar has used this for reluctant tributes before, to give them something to talk about for three minutes, but Peeta can use it beautifully, laughing at his own naiveté and making it sound like he'd love to fit in here. The Capitol will like it, and it's not a lie. Peeta actually does find a lot about the Capitol amusing and harmless, and he seems to genuinely like most of the people he's met here. He's particularly fond of Portia and Effie, but has also somehow found time to chat with his preps and most of the trainers down in the gym. He's interested in the differences between life here and life in the districts, and it comes through. If Caesar can work it down to a few questions, I think the audience will be eating out of his hands by the time he comes to his revelation about Katniss.  
  
We do a few practice runs, trying different observations. Finally, we settle on a little bit of business about the showers as his introduction. Caesar will love it. He'll just need to ask a question, then let Peeta start to work the crowd. It's exactly his style.  
  
Ultimately, he just seems to want to talk, and I let him ramble on about things until lunch. He's got a sharp eye, and a good sense of humor about himself and his situation, and he manages to get me laughing a little bit.  
  
Katniss gets to the table before we do. She's in a long skirt, which is currently hiked up around her thighs. I can see Effie's frustration from across the room, but she's holding it together. We all sit down and manage a decent, if quiet, meal.  
  
After it, Katniss gets up and clomps across the living room in her high heels. I really hope she's just doing it to annoy Effie, because she's going to need to be more graceful tomorrow. I show her into the interview practice room, sit her down in the chair, and sit down on the couch across from her. I look at her for a long time. There's nothing wrong with her looks, even if her skirt's tangled around her at the moment.  
  
The problem is the glare.  
  
"What?" she asks me defensively.  
  
"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," I say.  
  
Her sullen expression doesn't change much while I explain the situation to her. It doesn't bring out my best, I'm afraid. I remember Albinus Drake, sitting me down in that chair, circling around me like a hawk, demanding my Games strategy, threatening to kill me if I mentioned poetry. I wonder if he felt like I feel now, like any misstep could cost a real opportunity for a potential victor.  
  
Or maybe he just hated me. We became friends later, but he never did tell me whether or not his behavior in the apartment was an act.  
  
Katniss is not acting. I'm pretty sure that Katniss quite genuinely detests me.  
  
Which is fine. She can hate me if she wants to. But she can't let the Capitol audience see that she hates _them_.  
  
I can't get a read on her personality, so I try to play at being Caesar. I ask her about her sister. She loves Prim, she tells me coolly, without elaboration. I ask her about her mother. She doesn't want to talk about her mother. I ask about her father. This is met with a glare. I ask about boyfriends. She doesn't have or want one. Friends. She supposes Madge is a friend. School. She attends. Favorite books. She can't remember any. Favorite songs. She doesn't sing; it's a waste of time. I ask what subjects she's good at. Nothing legal. I ask about her favorite foods. There's a tiny bit of warmth here, with hot chocolate and lamb stew -- I guess Caesar can try those. Katniss is nothing if not an eater, though that's about the most intimate portrait I've been able to get.  
  
"All right, enough," I say. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know you, Katniss."  
  
"But I don't want them to!" she says, and for the first time, I think I see the real Katniss. "They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past."  
  
"Then _lie_ ," I tell her. "Make something up!"  
  
She grimaces miserably. "I'm not good at lying."  
  
"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug."  
  
She sits back, looking stung, and I guess she has reason to. She is finally communicating, and has finally told me something true, and I responded with a slap.  
  
I rub my head. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."  
  
She doesn't know how to act humble, though she's naturally not particularly arrogant. She doesn't have the physical presence to be ferocious. I reluctantly suggest that she try to be sexy, and am not sorry when she fails miserably at it. I'm not sure she's even seen anyone trying to be sexy in a movie. She doesn't have Peeta's sense of humor. She can't imply that she's mysterious, because I think she actually considers herself an open book.  
  
The one thing people want -- the girl who volunteered for her sister -- is the one thing she utterly refuses to give them. I don't blame her. I wouldn't give them my mother, either.  
  
By the end of the session, we still don't have a plan. Katniss openly hates me, and I don't blame her. She wouldn't listen to me now even if I gave her a perfect plan.  
  
She goes to her room and eats there.   
  
I'm pretty sure I won't see her before prep tomorrow. I sit around the apartment with Effie and Peeta for a few hours, but I have to do something. I call Cinna.  
  
We meet downstairs in the restaurant. He orders wine, but sends it back with the waiter when he sees me looking at it. I guess I look like I want to dive in and not come out.  
  
"Problem?" he asks.  
  
"Katniss."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"The attitude. It's not going to get her anywhere."  
  
He starts cutting his steak. "I'm not sure why she's like that with you. I find her a lovely person."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Of course, I find you a lovely person, too."  
  
"You have a strange definition of that word."  
  
He laughs. "No. I appreciate who she is. And who you are. That's all. And both of you are always quite charming with me."  
  
"Unfortunately, you're not the audience."  
  
"I'm _part_ of it." Cinna shrugs. "I've got a good rapport with her. I'll just tell her to remember that she's talking to me."  
  
"Okay." I nod. "I'll get Caesar to talk about the parade costume."  
  
"Oh, she'll have another great one tomorrow. He can have fun with that, too. That should fill three minutes."  
  
We manage to get through the rest of the meal without any fraught moments. I catch him at one point trying to get interview answers out of me. I'm actually answering him honestly. I guess this will work.  
  
I wait my turn the next morning to talk to Caesar. As usual, I'm last, but these meetings don't take long. He seems to understand that Katniss is a little headstrong, but he likes her. He'll ask about food and the parade, and he'll make a fuss about her dress. He says he can use the same tactic with both of them -- asking about their reactions to the Capitol -- to start pairing them before the final revelation.  
  
"The boy wants to make a love confession?" he asks, looking fascinated. "They'll love it. I've never had that happen on stage before."  
  
"It's not exactly a romantic event."  
  
"True. But if the boy is as good as you say he is -- "  
  
"He is."  
  
" -- then this year might be different. We'll see."  
  
I meet Effie, Peeta, and Portia by the elevator. Peeta's cutting a good figure in a sharp black suit with flame accents. Cinna and Katniss come out. He has her in a jeweled dress that catches the light like the flicker of a campfire. Under the stage lights, she'll seem to be ablaze again.  
  
I remind the kids that they're supposed to be friends here, which seems to surprise Katniss. I guess she thought a day of separate training was going to break the image.  
  
Not that it matters a lot on stage, where there isn't much opportunity for interaction among the tributes.  
  
Caesar does his usual patter. He begins the interviews. The Careers are as boring as ever, talking about how strong and tough they are. The girl from Five, Finch, is actually quite interesting and creative. Johanna's girl is a bit of a dud. Cecelia's girl, a pretty thing with a cloud of reddish brown curls, jokes about possibly having made the fabric in her dress. The stylist from Eleven has run with the magical fairy-princess theme for Rue, even giving her wings. She tells Caesar not to count her out. Chaff's tribute, the huge boy named Thresh, is as sullen as Katniss was yesterday, but at his size, he can pull it off.  
  
They call Katniss. I hold my breath as Caesar leads her out. She's nervous.  
  
He asks her what's impressed her the most. She looks over at the platform where Cinna is sitting.  
  
"The lamb stew," she says.  
  
This actually gets a laugh. Katniss seems astounded by it, and begins to warm up. By the time Caesar gets around to having her twirl around to show the way the dress flashes in the light, she's at ease. She's not the laughing girl from the chariot, but she does manage to charm the audience, and when Caesar leads her to the subject of Prim, she doesn't hesitate. She looks at Cinna, and answers the question.  
  
The buzzer goes off. I relax.  
  
Peeta comes out beside Caesar, standing in the light with him, smiling easily. He could be a co-host rather than a tribute. They banter back and forth about the showers, and I get the impression that Caesar is enjoying himself. He laughs at Peeta's jokes, and it's not his usual canned laugh. The audience is also laughing along fondly at their own foibles being pointed out.  
  
As soon as they are eating out of Peeta's hands, Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home.   
  
Peeta sighs dramatically, and the audience encourages him with a brief burst of applause. "There is this one girl," he says. "I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."  
  
The crowd whispers excitedly.  
  
Caesar suggests that if Peeta wins the Games, the mystery girl will have to notice him.  
  
Peeta shakes his head sadly. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning won't help in my case."  
  
"Why ever not?" Caesar asks, feigning puzzlement.  
  
Peeta looks around, giving just the right amount of hesitation. "Because…" He takes a deep breath, glances at Katniss, then says, "Because she came here with me!"  
  
There's an audible gasp in the audience, and I realize that it's worked like a charm. They understand everything already. They have the story in their minds. They want to see it play out.  
  
It's just about perfect.  
  
The camera switches over to Katniss, whose expression will be analyzed for days, by top experts on body language and psychology. None of them will know what to make of it. At home, I'd imagine that they take it for surprise.  
  
I recognize it for what it is.  
  
Katniss Everdeen is furious.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the interviews, Haymitch finally knocks at least some sense into Katniss... only to have Peeta surprise him when the gong goes off.

**Chapter Nine**  
The audience is wild to hear more from Katniss, and Caesar takes the opportunity to tease them with the possibility, then rescinds it by reminding them of the rules: Katniss has already had her three minutes.  
  
I couldn't have picked a better introduction to the whole thing. That's what it's going to be for all of them, from beginning to end. Peeta's created an impossible narrative. They know that they're _supposed_ to hear from her now, but they can't. They'll know that he's _supposed_ to win her, but he won't. They'll know there's _supposed_ to be a happily ever after ending, but it's out of the question.  
  
I briefly imagine the cognitive dissonance causing the Capitol to rise up as one and demand a stop to this, but I know better. It may happen in the future -- that was the plan -- but this year is just a beginning. I doubt they even recognize that there's such an easy solution to the problem yet.  
  
As Caesar continues his chat with Peeta, the camera cuts back to Katniss. She doesn't look back at it. She's blushing wildly. She finally looks up during the anthem, and I'm quite sure she notices that the cameras are focused on them, at opposite ends of the screen. She looks to me like she's all but shaking with rage.  
  
Apparently, it doesn't read this way to the audience.  
  
As we push through the crowd to get to the elevators, lights and microphones are shoved at me, reporters demanding in the public's name to know how they can help the "star-crossed lovers from District Twelve." I tell them to sponsor, and sponsor generously.  
  
I have a feeling I'll be pretty sick of the "star-crossed lovers" phrase soon, but I recognize it for what it is. Like "The girl who was on fire," it's a tag, a handle I can use to keep hold of things. I've seen it once or twice over the years. Cecelia Burns (now Stane) was "the little avenger" after she took one of the spiked maces and wiped out a crew of hunters who killed her district partner. Cashmere was "the fairy princess." Otho Magro was "the devil's due" for some reason.  
  
Finnick grabs me by the shoulder to free me from the crowd of press. He grins and jokes with them for a minute to get them to let up, then leads me to the elevators, where Effie, Cinna, and Portia are waiting with a crowd of other victors.  
  
Finnick never needed a tag, of course. Finnick _was_ a tag.  
  
"You looked about ready to snap at them," he says quietly as soon as the door closes. "Sorry if I was out of line."  
  
"No, it's fine. I probably was, which wouldn't have been good for them." I look around. "Where's Annie?"  
  
"I sent her back up to the apartment after our tributes were on. She was a little shaky." The car opens and lets off a District One contingent, which includes Cashmere. She gives Finnick a significant look, and he nods.  
  
"What's that about?"  
  
"Be careful. That's just a little helpful hint from me. And Cashmere. And Eno. And Jack. You know who it's from and what it's about."  
  
I nod. I know that selling her to sponsors has its drawbacks. But I have an inkling that Peeta's plan may help with that, as well, though he wouldn't know it. If I can sell this as the sappiest love story in the history of sappy Capitol love stories, then the audience won't put up with her playing around right away… maybe until someone else gets the interest.  
  
Or until we take Snow down.  
  
Either way, I can play it to keep her safe for a few years.  
  
The door opens again, and Finnick gets out. Chaff, who was stuck at the back of the elevator, comes forward and hands me a flask of wine. I've been abstaining all day, so I take it. It's not my usual poison, and it just tastes like rotten grapes to me, but my brain accepts it perfectly well, and demands more.  
  
I give the flask back to Chaff. I can't lose it now.  
  
We talk the rest of the way up about the other interviews. Seeder seems more inclined to trust Katniss than she did before. Chaff is pleased with Thresh, who's taken some sponsors from the usual Career pool. Effie adored Rue's interview dress (their stylist took another elevator). Cinna and Portia spend most of the ride being wooed by other districts.  
  
By the time we let Chaff and Seeder off at Eleven, the elevator seems very spacious. The four of us are quiet for the last leg of the trip.  
  
As the doors open, I hear Katniss scream, "You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!"  
  
Cinna and I look at each other, then go out into the hallway.  
  
Katniss is in a high fury. Her breath is whistling in and out between her clenched teeth, and the red starbursts reflecting from her gown throw a savage glow over her face.  
  
Peeta is getting up from the floor, where a decorative vase lies smashed behind him. His hands are bright red and bristling with pottery shards.  
  
"What's going on?" Effie asks. "Did you fall?"  
  
Peeta, not in a remotely romantic frame of mind, says, "After she shoved me."  
  
I look at his hands, then at Katniss. " _Shoved_ him?"  
  
She turns on me. "This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?"  
  
I realize that she really has no idea what's happened. She's responding like an injured animal… biting at the people most likely to help her.  
  
"It was my idea," Peeta says petulantly, pulling bits of the vase out of his bleeding hands. "Haymitch just helped me with it."  
  
"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!"  
  
"You _are_ a fool," I tell her. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."  
  
She looks back at me, completely uncomprehending. "He made me look weak."  
  
For the second time, I think of Drake. I think of him forbidding me to mention my girl, because "real men" apparently aren't supposed to be in love with anyone. I always thought that was just a Career district conceit.  
  
I sigh. "He made you look desirable!" I say. "And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!"  
  
She gives me a frustrated frown. "But we're not star-crossed lovers!"  
  
"Who cares?" I pull her over to the wall and make her look at me. "It's all a big show. It's about how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now, I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys at home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"  
  
"He's right, Katniss," Cinna says.  
  
This gets through. I guess all it takes is Cinna repeating what I say to make her hear it. "I should have been told," she pouts. "So I didn't look stupid."  
  
I keep looking at her, though she's ignoring me. Portia says it would have spoiled her reaction, Peeta snaps that she's worried about offending a boyfriend she claims not to have, and says that he can spot a bluff.  
  
She goes quiet. I think I believe her that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. I think it's the last thing on her mind. She blushes furiously, but I think of her saying, _He made me look weak._  
  
She's not blushing over someone calling her out on a crush. She's blushing that anyone would think of her as the sort of person who would have a boyfriend. I have to think about this.  
  
"You're golden, sweetheart," I tell her to get her mind off of it. "You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block."  
  
She finally looks at me again, her eyes searching mine for any sign of ridicule. I make sure not to show any. Finally, it seems to dawn on her that no one was trying to undermine her, and with that, a sort of deep embarrassment.  
  
I let her go, and she turns to Peeta. "I'm sorry I shoved you," she says.  
  
Peeta looks momentarily inclined to break away from her, then just shrugs wearily. "Doesn't matter. Though technically, it's illegal."  
  
"Are your hands okay?"  
  
"They'll be all right."  
  
I wait for a few minutes, while the whole business settles down, then suggest that we go in to eat.  
  
There's a lavish dinner laid out, but we've barely started the rose petal and cream soup when Effie looks at Peeta and gasps, "Oh, no! You're bleeding on the tablecloth!"  
  
If Katniss weren't so worried about her own faux pas, I guess she'd probably be offended by that. For myself, I'm used to it at this point. Effie clearly took her pills earlier so she'd be perky and happy for the cameras, and they seem to have a strange effect on how she chooses to express things. I know she means that Peeta is bleeding too heavily to eat, and she's right. The cuts from the vase have ripped open furrows in his palm.  
  
I send him off with Portia to get some ointment. The Capitol won't want him hobbled in the arena if it can be helped, and they have things that speed healing. I have no idea how. I should read some science books.  
  
He's back, his hands bandaged up, before the main course is served. I see Katniss looking at his hands guiltily. And there's something else. There's something strange between them from her perspective. I don't know what it is.  
  
We have a perfectly pleasant meal, or as pleasant as it can be the night before the arena. None of us mentions it. I want them to sleep.  
  
After we eat, we watch the recaps of the interviews. Peeta stole the show, though the edit is careful to make Katniss look worthy of his declaration. Caesar pushes the story as hard as he can, selling it like upcoming episodes of a soap opera.  
  
When it's over, Effie says she's going back to her place to get ready for tomorrow. There's always an escort's meeting early in the morning. Probably a mentor's meeting as well. She hugs the kids, and makes a joke about getting a promotion. (I have a feeling that they don't understand it. Her timing isn't good when she's had a pill, either.) She kisses their cheeks and heads for the elevator.  
  
I follow her, ostensibly to press the button behind her and shut the door. "Don't come in high tomorrow," I say. "I'm sober. I need you sober."  
  
She rolls her eyes at me. "They're _prescribed._."  
  
"Please, Effie."  
  
"All right." She straightens my tie up, then disappears.  
  
I go back to the living room. Katniss and Peeta, still in their formal wear, look up at me. I cross my arms and take them in. Now that she's not screaming, Katniss seems calm and collected and ready. Peeta is a little subdued.  
  
This is the last time I'll see at least one of them.  
  
Probably either of them.  
  
Usually, the night before the arena, I'm sure of losing both of my tributes. I've accepted it, though I fight as well as I can from the Viewing Center.  
  
"Any final words of advice?" Peeta asks.  
  
Final.  
  
I _don't_ accept it this year. I can't. I want them both, just as much as I want the audience to want them both. No one is going to get what they want, but I'm going to have it as long as I can. Katniss isn't going to be the problem there -- she survives by instinct. Peeta plans to die. I have to make sure he's not in a rush to get there.  
  
"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," I tell him, then turn my head a little to look at them both. "You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and others, and find a source of water. Got it?"  
  
Katniss nods soberly. "And after that?"  
  
I say again what got me in trouble with them in the first place, the only piece of advice that will ever matter in the arena: "Stay alive."  
  
This time, they seem to realize that I'm not being flip. They look back at me for a long time, and I guess we all understand that it's as much as I can do to prepare them.  
  
Katniss excuses herself to go to bed.  
  
Peeta remains, and looks at Portia. "How long do the bandages stay on?" he asks.  
  
"We'll leave them until you're ready to launch," Portia says. "Don't pick at them or try to look under them."  
  
"The ointment kills the germs?"  
  
"Kind of," Portia says. "It's growing a false skin to seal the wound, now that it's cleaned out. The cuts aren't deep, so the healing shouldn't interfere with you too much, and the seal will keep more infectors out. They should heal up in about three days."  
  
"Yeah," Peeta says.  
  
"And you're going to be there when they heal," I tell him. "You do what you need to do, and you survive as long as you can."  
  
"I -- "  
  
"You can't help her if you're dead."  
  
"I guess it depends what I die for." He looks at his bandaged hands. "I guess I know what she'd have said if I'd ever asked her out, huh?"  
  
"Not necessarily," Cinna says. "She's under a little stress. So are you."  
  
He starts to head for bed. I catch him before he disappears down the hall. "You don't have to do this, Peeta," I tell him, one last time.  
  
"I'm kind of committed now."  
  
"You have options."  
  
"I know. This is the one I'm choosing." He looks out the window at the Capitol. "Make it hurt them, Haymitch."  
  
I can't think of anything to say to this.  
  
"I don't think she'll make an alliance with me," he says. "So if I need allies… well, I might look for Char and see if they'll take me. Can you handle that if I do?"  
  
"I'll ask, but she'll be with One and Two, and I'm not sure how that will go."  
  
"I understand." He smiles at me, and it's Danny's smile, and then he disappears.  
  
I stay up for another hour with Portia and Cinna. There's nothing left to talk about, but they stay with me anyway.  
  
After they leave, I go to my room. I'm not surprised to hear the lock click on the mentor's wing of the apartment. The Capitol has occasionally indulged its desire to lock me up before. They've locked Chaff and Seeder in their rooms as well, and Jo has gotten this treatment at least one night every year since she won. I don't know what they think I'm going to do at this point. They could leave the whole compound unlocked, and I still wouldn't be able to do anything to stop tomorrow from coming.  
  
I can't sleep. I turn on the small television in my bedroom. As usual the night before the Games, it's about the parties on the street. They look the same as ever, until they get to the District Twelve fans. It's a bigger group than usual. People are talking about how romantic it all is. The girls love Peeta, and are showing it by dressing up as Katniss. The first wave of experts comes on to talk about Katniss's stunned reaction at the interviews. What does it mean? The pre-Games crew -- the junior-ranked site producers who can't pull better duty -- are still out in Twelve, and a shaky-voiced young man says that he's been investigating, but hasn't found evidence that they know each other. They'll most likely be leaving tomorrow. Until the final eight, there's no reason to have more than a local cameraman or two on site to film reactions in the square.  
  
I start going through my sponsor list.  
  
They cut back to the studio, where Claudius Templesmith is covering the festivities. He has his finger pressed to his earpiece, which seems to be feeding him news of vast importance.  
  
"We may have some information about what happened after Peeta Mellark's revelation tonight!" he announces breathlessly, as if it's a jury verdict on a major crime. "Cameras near the training center have spotted Mellark and Everdeen on the roof… and they appear to be having a very serious conversation!" He listens more. "We can't pick up sound, unfortunately. But perhaps our experts can help us suss out the body language!"  
  
They cut to a grainy shot that must come from a building across the central courtyard. It shows all of the balconies, and the edge of the roof. Peeta is sitting on the low parapet, and Katniss is standing behind him. The angle doesn't even allow for lip reading. All it ends up showing is Peeta's head moving around a little bit, and Katniss storming back inside. Peeta stills and starts watching the city. I assume that's what he was doing in the first place. If I had the option, I'd go gather them and put them back to bed, but the Capitol removed that choice.  
  
The analysts try to make sense of it. Their favored explanation appears to be that Katniss is overwhelmed by her emotions, and Peeta is giving her "room to think." No one mentions the fact that she's "thinking" about something impossible.  
  
They go back to coverage of the parties.  
  
I go to the door at the end of the hallway -- the one that leads from the mentor's wing to the rest of the apartment -- and I wiggle the doorknob, even though I know it's locked. I can't hear anything from the other side.  
  
I go into Effie's room, which looks out on the same side of the building that was filmed, and try to open the window to call to Peeta to get inside, but of course, the windows don't open. I never had cause to find that out before.  
  
I try to sleep. I'm going to need to be alert in the morning. I manage a kind of thin, useless drowsing. I hear the stylists come for the kids, but I can't quite wake up. Then they're gone.  
  
There's a click, and the door unlocks, right about the time my alarm goes off.  
  
I don't bother with breakfast. They'll have it at the Viewing Center. I find something decent and comfortable to wear, grab a bag with extra clothes in case I can't leave, and head out.  
  
I walk over silently with Chaff and Seeder. The other mentoring victors are moving around us, some of them talking softly, most of them looking down at the pavement and trying to face what we're all about to deal with. By the time we get inside, most of us are putting on our Games faces. We pass the escort meeting, and I see Effie with a few of the others. She looks disturbed. Great.  
  
I go to the District Twelve table. They replace it every year, I think. It certainly doesn't show the scars I seem to remember inflicting on it. It always looks the same when we start: Blameless white metal, with the two tribute screens set into the back of it, the controls set into the side, and a fresh, unopened supply list book in the center. I sit down and open the book, hoping to get an idea of the arena from what they're letting us buy. This year, I'll have money.  
  
Which isn't going to go far.  
  
I stare at the list with growing horror. Every item on it, even a bottle of water, is starting out in the stratosphere. With all the money pledged, I'm still going to be scrambling for supplies.  
  
Effie comes in five minutes later, and I can tell that she's seen it already. She gets out the sponsor list.  
  
"What's going on?" I ask her.  
  
"New rule. They looked at the pre-Games pledges this year, and adjusted the district costs to make it a sliding scale, so it's 'equitable' at the start."  
  
I let this settle in my brain. "In other words, it's to eat up our money."  
  
"I'm sure it's meant to make things more fair. But they should have warned us. We could have waited to get pledges until later."  
  
I shake my head. "I guess we'll be working the story as much as we can."  
  
"Story?"  
  
"Well, you know -- with Peeta and Katniss."  
  
She gives me a puzzled look, and I realize that she's following the story, too, which means that to her, it's not a story. It's just what's happening.  
  
I look back at the book. With the prices, either they're trying to force a quick Games, or the arena has what the tributes will need. Since the merchants of the Capitol love the Games, I guess it's the latter. I see water and purifiers, various kinds of medicine, and camping supplies on the list. There are also blankets, priced high at the start, so I expect a cold night or two. A few utility knives, but no outright weapons. They'll be dependent on whatever is at the Cornucopia, or whatever they can make.  
  
The Games music comes on at ten sharp, with a montage of images from previous Hunger Games. I see Finnick going by in his chariot, Johanna raising her axe, Chaff throwing a tribute from a mountain ledge. I see myself laughing wildly on the cliff, and Beetee sending out a bright volt of electricity. I'm sure everyone else is in there as well, but it goes by too quickly to even recognize most of my friends.  
  
The tributes rise up from the launch tubes (the point of view shot comes from little Rue this year). The camera pans the tributes as the countdown begins.  
  
Katniss is directly across from the mouth of the Cornucopia and I can see her eyes on it. There is a silver bow and a sheath of arrows just waiting for her.  
  
"Don't do it," I whisper.  
  
She looks to one side, and I see Peeta about four down from her. He narrows his eyes.  
  
She's looking at him when the gong sounds, and the race to the Cornucopia begins.  
  
Peeta gets down from his platform and runs, skirting the circle at his top speed. He tosses the big boy from Seven out of his way, but seems to be otherwise unmolested.  
  
Katniss panics.  
  
Whether it was the last moment's hesitation or something else that brought her to her senses, she doesn't try for it. She grabs a piece of plastic and only runs a few yards in -- which is a few more yards than I'd like, but it's not all the way. She dives at an orange backpack and gets to it at the same time as the boy from District Nine. Neither of them sees the girl from Two. I yell, as if it can do any good at all.  
  
The girl from Two -- identified as Clove on the screen -- throws the knife at full force, and the boy goes down. She's drawn another one to throw at Katniss before Katniss even realizes what's happening.  
  
She rallies quickly and runs, raising the backpack behind her. Clove throws the knife, but it buries itself deep in the supplies, both missing and arming Katniss at the same time.  
  
Her district partner, Cato, yells to her, and she runs back to the Cornucopia.  
  
Katniss disappears into the woods.  
  
I look at Peeta's screen to see where he's ended up, and if they're close enough for me to move them together.  
  
I freeze.  
  
Peeta hasn't run into the woods.  
  
He's running, full tilt, toward the bloodbath at the Cornucopia.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta pushes his way into the Career gang to get Katniss's bow, forcing Haymitch to ally with Brutus and the other Career mentors.

  **Part Two: Storyteller**

 ****  
  
 **Chapter Ten**  
I understand two things immediately. The first is that he's going for the bow and arrows for Katniss. The second is that he's too late. The girl from District One, Glimmer, has already claimed the weapon.  
  
Either Peeta doesn't see this or he thinks he can get it away from her. He rushes pell-mell across the hard-packed dirt. He kills no one, but he's not the gentle boy I know, either. He throws off running tributes, jabs a boy in the elbow to grab his knife, and is grappling with Chiron Gibbs from Six when Charlotte runs into the fray. She has picked up a spear, and it goes all the way through Chiron, ripping open Peeta's arm on the other side.  
  
"Sorry!" she yells. "You're with us."  
  
"No way!" Cato shouts from where he's fighting with Blight's tribute, Otto. "I told you no!"  
  
"You're with us," Charlotte says, coming in close. "Watch my back."  
  
Peeta falls into a defensive position as they move in toward the Cornucopia.  
  
Glimmer draws back the bow. She's not very good, but she's also only about five feet from her target -- the District Five boy, Tesla. He goes down with an arrow in his gut. She goes in, pulls out the arrow, and jabs it into his throat, then pulls it out and puts it back in the quiver, letting him bleed out.  
  
There's a scream, and Finnick yells as his tribute falls to the ground. Winnie Andrus from Seven makes the mistake of raising her arms to give a wild yell of either triumph or horror. Char shouts and spears her. At Seven's table, Johanna is swearing a blue streak, and I guess she told Winnie to stay back from the fight.   
  
"We lost Garvey!" Char shouts to Cato. "We need Twelve!"  
  
Cato answers by drawing his knife across Otto's throat, taking District Seven out of the running in the first five minutes of the Games. He stalks over and raises his knife at Char. "We can do without him _or_ you."  
  
Peeta shoves her out of the way and brings his knife up to meet Cato's. Cato has thirty pounds on him, but Peeta's no slouch. He attacks furiously, pushing Cato back, giving him no chance to find his feet. Peeta's knife flashes in the sun, and there's a line of blood on Cato's hand.  
  
Cato's knife falls to the ground, and Peeta picks it up.  
  
He kicks Cato out of the way and rushes on Clove, who's barely paying attention. She's found a stash of knives, and killed Gazar Donnecker from Eight and Nonni Gesh from Three, bring her total to three after Gershom. She looses a fourth knife, but before it hits its target (Gershom's district partner, Polly Keys), Peeta grabs her from behind and pulls her back roughly, putting the Cornucopia at his back and Clove between himself and Cato. He holds his knives over her wrists, the flats pressing against the arteries. All he has to do is turn them and pull down.  
  
"I'm with you," he says coldly. He's speaking to Cato, but I see him looking beyond, toward Glimmer.  
  
Toward the bow that was clearly meant for Katniss.  
  
Clove thrusts her head backward, smashing it into Peeta's face, but he doesn't let go. He turns one of the knives enough to open a small cut, but not enough to reach the arteries.  
  
"I don't think you have the balls to really cut her," Cato says.  
  
"I have the brains not to," Peeta tells him calmly. "I want you as allies. Killing one of my strongest allies would be stupid. But if you're not up for an alliance, I won't have a choice."  
  
Cato narrows his eyes. "What about your girlfriend?"  
  
"If we find her, I think you'll find that she'd be a useful ally, too."  
  
In the Viewing Center, Chaff leans over to me. "What's your boy think he's doing, Haymitch?"  
  
I know exactly what he _thinks_ he's doing, but there are so many ways this could go south that I can't even speak.  
  
"Get real, Cato," Char says in the arena. "You saw him with the knives in training. I'd rather have him on our side than off it."  
  
Cato comes over. He moves with a strange, quiet speed. He grabs Peeta's wrists and jams his thumb into the deep cut on Peeta's arm.  
  
The knives fall to the ground.  
  
Cato pulls Clove away. Peeta is unarmed and backed up against the Cornucopia. If Cato is going to kill him, it's going to be now, and I'll have to face Danny in a few minutes, to explain how his beloved child wound up dead in the dirt on the first day of the Games.  
  
"I don't trust you," Cato says. "And if you step out of line, you're dead." He looks at Peeta with distaste. "You're dead anyway, sooner or later, but trust me when I tell you, if you're working an angle, I'll make sure it's sooner."  
  
The two boys stare each other down.  
  
Then Glimmer, apparently bored by the whole scene now that no one else is left moving at the Cornucopia, says, "If you boys are done measuring your spears, maybe we should go set up camp."  
  
The District One boy, Marvel, laughs nervously, and Char takes Peeta by the arm, marching him away from Cato. They start bundling up supplies. Every instinct in my body tells me to get Peeta out of there, but there's nothing I can do.  
  
"We're keeping Twelve?" Clove asks quietly, coming up to Cato. The main Games screen follows them. "After _that_?"  
  
Cato wrinkles his nose. "For now. Maybe he'll get us to the girl."  
  
"What, are we taking her in, too?"  
  
"Not on my watch," Cato says. "But I don't like having someone who scored an eleven out there where we can't see her. He gets us to her, we kill them both."  
  
I'm not worried about this. I know they mean it, but I'm at least reasonably sure that Peeta knows it, too. The District Two contingent has never exactly been a brain trust, and I doubt their subtle plans will escape his notice. The question is whether he can think his way out of an attack when it comes. If he can't, all I can do is hope that Katniss will have the element of surprise, like Maysilee did when she saved me.  
  
A Capitol Dreams runner comes to the table. She's staring at both of my screens in awe, even though at the moment, Katniss is just walking through the woods and Peeta looks like he's helping pack for a camping trip. She looks up at me. "Mr. Emmett says you need to move your table to join the rest of the group."  
  
I've never moved our table for an alliance before. Since one side of it is free, our allies have generally come down here.  
  
Of course, District One has a side free as well, and they never move, either. I don't think there's ever _been_ an alliance between Twelve and One.  
  
I glance at Effie, who shrugs and starts to pack up our things.  
  
"You don't actually have to go over," Chaff says.  
  
"Yeah, I do," I say. "Peeta asked me to fix things for him if he had to take Char up on her invitation."  
  
Chaff shakes his head slowly. "Good luck, then. I know how much you and Brutus enjoy each other's company."  
  
I disconnect the table from its power source and wheel it across the semi-circle to the Career tables. Cashmere makes a few adjustments and points me to a new outlet. I wheel the table into the little tracks around it, toe the activator, and the energy stream connects. My screens come back to life. There's been no change in the forty-three seconds they inform me that they've been off, though I'm offered an opportunity for a repeat of the action on a split screen with the live feed. I decide I can live without it.  
  
"If Loverboy pulls any tricks," Brutus says without looking at me, "you're a dead man, too."  
  
"He means 'Welcome aboard,'" Finnick says dryly, coming back from the communications booths, where I assume he's been talking to Garvey's family. The calls to the families are the only time he loses his manic cheer. It will be back soon enough. "Get some manners, Brutus."  
  
"I like him," Annie says, smiling shakily. "Your boy, Haymitch. He seems nice."  
  
Enobaria gives a humorless laugh. "Right. Nothing says 'nice' like grabbing a girl fifty pounds lighter than he is and threatening to cut her wrists."  
  
I look up at the screen, where the Gamemakers are starting to put up the tally from the bloodbath. "Want to check your stats, Eno? I think your girl can handle herself."  
  
In fact, with four kills in the bloodbath, Clove is easily in first place, in terms of Games scores. Char killed the two I saw. Cato killed Otto, and a girl I missed early on, by the name of Nancy Lawtie, from District Ten. Nancy had somehow killed the District Six girl, Tamora Foya, before she died, and of course Winnie killed Garvey and Glimmer killed Tesla. None of this will be official until they gather up the bodies. I don't know why it takes them so long. The bloodbath is quick and brutal, and there's no doubt that any of these kids are dead. You don't take a knife to the spinal cord and walk away from it.  
  
They know it, too. That's why they feel perfectly comfortable giving the scores before the death toll is official. I think they just wait to sound the cannon to see if anyone goes back.  
  
"Oh, look," Brutus sneers. "District Twelve is getting maudlin. What a surprise. Want a drink, Abernathy?"  
  
I do want a drink, but I'm not going to give Brutus the satisfaction of seeing me take one. I see Effie gearing up to offer one, but I shake my head.  
  
She nods. She seems nervous around the Careers. This may be because Brutus is baring his teeth at her in a way that I doubt even she could interpret as an actual smile. He looks like a cat contemplating toying with a trapped mouse. "The official sponsors are starting to register in our account," she says. "I'll… I'll just go to the escort office and get everything tallied. You know I'm better with numbers when I'm not distracted."  
  
"That's good. And see if the Daughters came through. They were meeting about it, last I knew."  
  
She smiles and heads away.  
  
"I see they assigned you a real genius, _genius_ ," Brutus says. "Of course, I'm guessing it's not her brain that keeps your attention."  
  
"You don't get to make comments about Effie," I tell him. "She's off-limits."  
  
He makes an unpleasant-looking gesture of fake surrender.  
  
While Peeta and the other kids bundle up the supplies and head for a spot on the lake shore, I get settled in. After twenty-three years, it's very strange seeing this room from a different angle.  
  
Brutus and Enobaria largely ignore me for the next twenty minutes, which mirrors what their tributes are doing to Peeta in the arena. Gloss and Cashmere give me cool, polite smiles that tell me they aren't much more interested in my presence than I am in theirs.  
  
Even though Finnick lost his tribute, he seems to be as involved with Char as Annie is. He moves their table over to mine.  
  
"Don't worry," he says. "The first day of school is always hard, but you'll make friends soon."  
  
"Solid proof that you didn't know me in school."  
  
He grins. "I bet you were friends with all the nice old, single teachers who wanted to straighten up your hair."  
  
"Most of the nice old ladies in Twelve were pretty convinced that I had things _living_ in my hair."  
  
"You weren't at the top of the social ladder? With your famously personable nature?"  
  
I make a rude gesture in his direction, then point at the screen. "That kid's dad was one of the few people who treated me like a human being."  
  
He winces. "Sorry."  
  
"It's okay." I look around him at Annie, who is giving a tentative smile. "How are you, Annie? Getting settled in?"  
  
"I'll be all right." Something crashes at the bar, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.   
  
Finnick puts an arm around her. "It's okay. Just the bartender tripping over something."  
  
"I know. I…" She puts her hands up in surrender. He grabs one and kisses it.  
  
There are no cameras in the Viewing Center -- not since Finnick's first year as a mentor -- so I guess no one's going to stop him being affectionate with her here. I've never been able to pick up just when Annie went from being a tribute he was fond of to being the most important person in his life. I think it's something that's just happened gradually over the last three years. It's been good for her, certainly, to have him helping her out. It's also been good for him. Every time I've seen him, he's become more of the man I think he's going to end up being. A good man, a loyal man. A family man.  
  
An _adult_ , who doesn't drink himself into oblivion and embarrass his district in front of the whole country.  
  
There are worse things to be, especially given the people he might have ended up emulating.  
  
I look back at my screens. Katniss is still wandering in the woods. She's passed close to a few other tributes, but there haven't been any fights since she got away from Gershom Squires. Peeta and the others have settled down at the lake, and are starting their inventory of supplies. He discovers a box of bandages and wraps one around the gash in his arm. I can see his hands close up. There are still faint red lines from the broken vase, but they're clearly not bothering him. His face is puffed up at the moment from Clove's struggles to free herself, but nothing seems to be permanently wrong.  
  
Except that he's in the arena, of course, where a whole lot of things end up being permanent.  
  
I look up at the main screen. Now that the bloodbath is over, they're going from tribute to tribute, catching up with them. Katniss is moving down a slope in the woods. On the arena map, I can see that she's headed toward either a large creek or a small river, but she's not really near it yet. Judging from the speed she's moving and how little of the map her trail covers, it's a huge arena. We, of course, are not given anything as useful as a scale to measure it by, though this year, they're at least letting us see where the other tributes are. I guess they've decided we can't really tell our charges anything so specific.  
  
She's going to need water, but she's far too close to four other tributes -- Kersey Green from Eight, Finch Adams from Five, Onnisey Verd from Three, and Rue McKissack from Eleven -- to risk sending her a parachute. It would be like putting a flaming arrow in the sky and saying, "Your prey is here."   
  
I don't _think_ any of them are likely to attack Katniss. They all seem to be going the survival route. But I'm not taking chances. All I can do is hope that Katniss will turn toward a tiny pond I see that should be in striking distance, if she doesn’t go too far off course.  
  
Kersey looks utterly spooked by the woods. It's not surprising. There are woods _around_ District Eight, but unlike District Twelve, they have no presence in the city at all. Whatever was left of the natural environment has long been buried there. It's one of my least favorite places to visit on my unapproved travels. Cecelia and Woof are always hospitable (well, Woof _was_ , until he hit his head a few years ago; now he's just confused a lot), but meetings have to be in the city itself, and the city is frankly even more depressing than home. Loud, smelly factories, broken-down warehouses, and people piled on top of each other in crumbling tenements, with wet laundry strung between them to dry. The river passes by on the east side of town. It's far up on the Mississippi. It stinks, and just downstream from the factories, it's so toxic from the chemicals that you can get sick by falling in. Many of these chemicals are dyes, and the locals call it the "rainbow water."  
  
It's no wonder Kersey looks out of place in a verdant, healthy forest.  
  
Rue, on the other hand, looks entirely at home, almost happy as she climbs the trees. She's able to crawl out far enough on the long branches to travel tree to tree, like a little squirrel, a tiny bird.  
  
Finch has spotted Onnisey. She's keeping her distance, but staying close. He's sitting on a rock, his hand over his forehead, thinking something out.   
  
"Is he a problem solver?" I ask Beetee.  
  
Beetee nods. "He's an engineering student. He's probably trying to figure out how to make a weapon."  
  
I raise my voice enough to reach Farraday Sykes at the District Five table. "What about your girl? What's she like?"  
  
Farraday, who has never especially cared for me, puts on a falsely enthusiastic smile and says, "I guess you'll find out, won't you?"  
  
Beetee rolls his eyes.  
  
I turn my attention back to my own alliance, if you can really call it that -- we all know that Peeta and Cato are far from allies.  
  
"So," I say, "who's bringing what to the table?"  
  
"Is Loverboy bringing _anything_?" Brutus asks. "What did he do to get an eight? Show the Gamemakers how well he can moon over a girl?"  
  
Finnick pretends to consider this. "I know some of them. I know a few, you know. Of course, I doubt they'd be all that impressed with how an inexperienced sixteen year old would follow through."  
  
Enobaria and Cashmere both give bitter laughs, and I guess they know a few Gamemakers, too.  
  
"Seneca Crane might," Cashmere says. "I know… a colleague of his. Says he's a romantic."  
  
"A romantic head Gamemaker," Enobaria muses. "That's got to be a first."  
  
It probably is. And Peeta's picked a romance story to tell. My brain picks up these two pieces, and tries to make them fit together. I push it out of conscious thought. My brain will tell me if it comes up with anything.  
  
"Peeta's strong," I say. "He showed them how much he can lift and throw. He's also smart, and can play the cameras. What can yours do, other than spear girls and strut around like a kid playing soldier?"  
  
Brutus glares at me. Apparently, no one is supposed to question _his_ tribute.  
  
But it gets the conversation moving. Cato is a weapons expert and a hand-to-hand fighter. His best weapon is the sword. He's also strong (and without any "distractions," as Brutus puts it), and clever, and good in school. And as to camera readiness, he may not be able to "cheat" by following Caesar's sentimental claptrap, but, in case I hadn't noticed, his face hasn't been compromised, and he looks much better than my little pretty boy. Only very little girls would possibly like someone like Peeta. "He's non-threatening," Brutus says. "Safe. I'm sure he'll be very popular among people who are still afraid of real men. But, unfortunately for him, the Hunger Games are for real men."  
  
"Wow," Finnick says. "That's great news. You mean that someday, I'll grow up and be a jackass , too?"  
  
Enobaria raises an eyebrow. "Personally, I just keep checking to see if I've turned into a man yet." She pulls out the front of her blouse and looks down at her breasts. "Nope. Still got what I came with. Which is good. My clothes wouldn't fit right otherwise."  
  
The others laugh, and we settle into a more reasonable conversation about the tributes. Clove, we've seen a great deal of. Her skill with a knife is unsurpassed, but obviously, she'll have issues if a bigger tribute grabs her. ("Also," Enobaria says, "she's a little crazy. That should be helpful.") Cashmere clearly does not like Glimmer very well, but says she can fight, and she's willing to fight dirty if she has to. Gloss is actually fond of Marvel, who he says is a good boy who doesn’t have the slightest real idea what the arena is.  
  
"He's strong enough, and he's got a great spear arm, but I don't think he really appreciates… what really happens in the arena."  
  
No one answers this. No one who hasn't already been in the arena really appreciates what happens there, or what it means. There's us and there's them, as my mentor, Drake, once told me. Victors and everyone else. We know what it means. The tributes who die in the arena know what it means. The people who've never been in there? All they have is a theory.  
  
After we establish who we're dealing with, we get down to the business end of things. Even with all the pledges Effie's off confirming, Districts One and Two have more than I do. Enobaria and Gloss are in a high dudgeon about the progressive rates on the supplies, which they say is unfair to them, after they've worked harder to cultivate sponsors. I point out that we're sitting on a huge pile of supplies from the Cornucopia -- I don't know what they think they're going to need. Annie is not popular with the sponsors, and Char only got a handful, but Finnick worked his connections for Garvey, and got all of them to agree to transfer to Char if Garvey died first. Between them, they're about on a level with Katniss and Peeta's sponsors, or will be when my pledges are confirmed.  
  
Of course, I don't plan on telling Brutus about anything that's not already registering in my account. I'm reasonably sure he's keeping secrets, too. More to the point, Peeta was pretty clear that he wanted money to go to Katniss, so I _can't_ share it with the Careers.  
  
By the time we finish, it's afternoon, and we finish our conversation (without discussing it) when they start sounding the cannons. Annie props a picture of Garvey up on Finnick's blank screen.  
  
In the arena, the kids have set up a serviceable camp by the lake. Charlotte has caught fish for everyone, and Peeta's building a fire while she guts them. Cato is merciless with his jokes about the parade costumes, but Peeta takes it in good humor, even holding aloft a flaming stick and posing for the camera.  
  
"Was that real fire?" Glimmer asks. "I mean… that must have been hot."  
  
Peeta sits down and pokes the stick into the campfire. "Yeah, Glimmer. My stylist was trying to kill me. She said I deserved it, making my preps work with the curls."  
  
Char sits down by the fire and tries to arrange three swords (apparently deemed superfluous) into a makeshift grill. "Seriously, Peeta, what was it? Was it actually hot?"  
  
"It's just a plasma."  
  
"Flames can be plasma," Marvel says. "They aren't always, but when they're really hot, they can be." He smiles sheepishly. "I like chemistry. I was going to work in the perfumery."  
  
"Oh." Peeta shrugs. "I don't know what it was. But it felt kind of like wind tugging on the cape."  
  
Char carefully lays the first fish down on the swords and seems pleased that they hold. She picks up the second. "It looked great. Next year, District Four should have water costumes."  
  
"Yeah," Clove says. "That's a headline. District Four's all wet."  
  
"It could mean something else. Like an unstoppable flood of vict--OW!" Char yelps and jumps away from the fire. The second fish bumped the swords just wrong, and a flame came out and licked at her hand.  
  
"Char-broiled!" Cato yells, capering around. "To go with the boy on fire here."  
  
Peeta rolls his eyes and picks up the fish. "I know how to cook on fires," he says. "And don't worry about that little burn. It'll sting a little, and then you'll forget about it."  
  
They go on talking about nothing of consequence.  
  
Meanwhile, Katniss has finally settled down long enough to examine what she came away from the Cornucopia with. It's nothing like the bounty Peeta's allies have got, but she hasn't done too badly. She has a sleeping bag, night-vision goggles (though I doubt she knows what they are, given her casual dismissal of them), the usual Games fare of crackers and dried beef, matches, and a water bottle. She repacks and moves on.  
  
The main Games screen has caught her a few times -- more than is really warranted by her long, meandering walk through the woods -- but of course, they like to find allies after the bloodbath. This year's bloodbath was worse than usual, taking almost half the field. Six of the remaining thirteen tributes are in the Career pack. Five of the others (Katniss, Rue, Thresh, Kersey, and Spicer Daby from Ten) are determinedly alone. The last two tributes, Onnisey and Finch, must have spotted each other while I was talking to my new best friends. They seem to be in a cautious alliance. With District Four sitting in the Career pack, Beetee and Farraday have just pushed their tables together. Wiress, her tribute dead, has gone off to do business in the Capitol, or maybe just to work in one of the labs. She does that a lot after she loses tributes.  
  
At any rate, Onnisey and Finch have made their way back up to the Cornucopia. They're not too far from the Careers, and they keep their voices very low.  
  
"Anything left?" Onnisey whispers.  
  
Finch moves carefully around the Cornucopia, searching the ground, then comes back. "No. Picked clean. Like usual."  
  
Onnisey sits down on a rock. "It's not fair," he says. "There's got to be _something_ for us."  
  
"Platforms and landmines," Finch says.  
  
"Landmines."  
  
"They're deactivated."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"No one blew up."  
  
Onnisey waves this off. "Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean they're _dead_. I wonder what the detonators look like."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What if we could block their way to their supplies?"  
  
Finch shakes her head. "You might be able to make it work, but they're never going to leave the camp alone long enough for you to bury them."  
  
"They _might_." He goes to one of the platforms and starts digging the hard packed dirt with his hands.  
  
Finch hands him a flat rock. "This'll make it easier -- if you don't get blown up for it."  
  
He nods, and keeps digging. From the District Three table, Beetee smiles coolly at us.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and Peeta both get accustomed to their new companions, and Peeta is faced with a horrible duty.

**Chapter Eleven**  
The day goes on.  
  
Effie comes back with the biggest budget I've ever had. I take her to lunch, leaving Finnick at my station. With the prices this year, I'll still have to be careful, but luckily, Peeta's got a huge pile of supplies and Katniss can feed herself. I can save the money for emergencies -- the pricey first aid supplies, ways to compensate if the Gamemakers decide to trash the arena, things like that. Toward the back of the supply book, where the prices are higher than most yearly incomes in Twelve, I can even get the ointment that Portia used on Peeta's hands.  
  
"And I took more sponsor calls," Effie says. "They want to meet."  
  
"You take the meetings," I tell her. "Tell them I have two tributes to watch."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah. I'll handle Brutus."  
  
"I don't think he likes me."  
  
"He doesn't like anyone. Don't take it personally. He barely puts up with Enobaria."  
  
She nods and picks at her salad. "How are you doing, Haymitch?"  
  
"I guess I can handle them. As long as Finnick doesn't leave."  
  
"I mean with…" She points toward the bar.  
  
"I'm trying not to think about it. So far, so good."  
  
"Do you need to have one now, while I'm here with you?"  
  
I nod. It's probably a good idea to do it _before_ I get a tremor, or start getting paranoid.  
  
Effie orders me a sweet, obnoxious drink. It's horrendous, but it actually packs a little kick. I want another. She refuses, and shows me Digger's token.  
  
I nod, flex my fingers hard against the table, and spend the rest of the meal chugging water so I feel like I'm drinking. After we eat, Effie goes back to meetings, and I go back to the Career alliance, where Finnick tells me that absolutely nothing has happened with either of my tributes.  
  
It's slow, with only the friendly camping trip among the Careers, Onnisey and Finch's archaeological expedition, and five lonely souls wandering the arena.  
  
Down in the flatlands, Thresh Robinson has set up a little camp in a stand of rocks. He got a large backpack up near the Cornucopia, along with a scythe. He nicked Kersey Green on the way out, but didn't seriously hurt her. Now, he's setting skillful traps. Claudius Templesmith narrates that District Eleven farm workers often have to create barriers between the crops and the various ruminants that roam the open spaces. Chaff has told me about this. People do set the traps, but Peacekeepers don't allow them to keep their kills. They shoot dying animals with poisons instead, since wild meat is obviously unfit for human consumption, and they have such great concern for the poor, misguided souls of District Eleven, who might otherwise foolishly eat it.  
  
Spicer Daby from Ten is working his way laboriously around the lake. He has a terrible limp from an accident in the fields, or so they claim. I can't help but think of Ginger McCullough, and wonder if Spicer's "accident" involved a bullet in the leg. No one has given him a brace, any more than they did for Ginger. He's playing the Games the way I wanted her to play them, too -- getting away from everyone. Hiding. He's good.  
  
Just before the sun starts to set, he spies a small island close to the eastern shore of the lake. He swims for it. No one else is anywhere nearby. If he's smart and doesn't do anything to call attention to his presence, he could make it for a long time.  
  
They start doing filler programming while the tributes settle in for the night. Person-on-the-street interviews tell me that interest in Katniss is still high, though most of her fans are hoping that she'll "do something" soon. She's doing as I told her, to the letter. She's staying alive. But she's going to have to step up her game if we're going to get her back to the enthusiasm levels she had after the parade.  
  
She continues to wander until twilight, when she sets two snares. I'm leery of this, but she's smart enough to walk away from them for five minutes before finding a place to settle. She chooses a grove of willow trees, climbing a large one in the middle and positioning herself in a fork near the top of it. She's obviously spent a lot of time in trees. She actually straps herself and her sleeping bag onto a branch with her belt.  
  
The camera gives this a sort of loving look, while someone natters on about her cleverness, but they can't do much with it.  
  
They move to Rue, who finds Katniss's snares and starts looking up into the trees. Even the commentators don't bother pretending that it's an aggressive act. Instead, they interview Seeder -- I didn't even see her leave from over here -- and she tells them how Rue admires Katniss.  
  
"Do _you_ admire her?" an eager young reporter asks.  
  
I brace myself for a stab in the back from an old friend, but Seeder just smiles and says, "I trust Rue's judgment. And I certainly admire Katniss's mentor. I hope she's a worthy pupil."  
  
I look across the room. Chaff smiles and tips an invisible hat. I feel strangely teary. It's the lack of booze. It makes me sentimental.  
  
"How much did you have to trade for _that_ one?" Brutus sneers. "Miss high and mighty --"  
  
"You don't get to talk about Seeder, either," I say. "As a matter of fact, keep your opinions of all of my friends to yourself."  
  
"Except me," Finnick says. "Everyone knows all you'd ever say about me is how devilishly handsome and smart I am, so Haymitch wouldn't need to kill you."  
  
I shrug. "It would depend on his tone."  
  
Brutus apparently either decides that I'm kidding, or decides to pretend to think I'm kidding. He laughs, and goes back to a conversation with a waiter.  
  
The production team goes in for another check around the arena. Spicer has found a little circle of sheltering rocks, and is contemplating a fire. He has a brain, though, and doesn't light one, opting instead for trying to create a blanket from large leaves.  
  
Kersey Green is being smart so far, but she's obviously cold -- her jacket was ripped when Thresh nicked her, and it's not holding in heat -- and spooked by the environment. She is wandering the woods with increasing panic.  
  
Katniss, meanwhile, has somehow gone to sleep sitting in her tree, trusting her belt to keep her secured.  
  
Rue isn't far away, but went the wrong way from the snares. She's up in a pine tree, looking at the moon. She raises her hand and makes a little gesture toward the stars. ("A wish," Claudius tells us. "A very old custom indeed!")  
  
Onnisey and Finch have managed to dislodge one of the landmines, and Onnisey has it popped open to a tangle of wires. They've left the Cornucopia, and are hiding in the woods.  
  
"Is it electrical?" Finch asks.  
  
"Yeah. If it were just pressure, they couldn't turn it off remotely."  
  
"So, where did they break the circuit?"  
  
Onnisey examines the mine and points to something. "I think they stop feeding it, too. Do you have a good idea for a power source?"  
  
The main coverage cuts away, so I don't hear any more of this conversation. Either the Capitol audience finds technical conversations dull, or the Capitol government is not interested in teaching the population about explosives. I tend to favor the latter, and am half expecting them to blow Finch and Onnisey up with the mine they're holding.  
  
Our camp, on the other hand, is having what they consider a perfectly acceptable conversation. It could be recorded from any year and just replayed. They've taken turns exploring the area, and Peeta's been recruited to make a rough map on the back of a food box. It's not too bad, given that he's drawn it with a twig he keeps charring in the fire. None of them have any idea how large the arena is, though.  
  
"Where do we start the hunt?" Clove asks. "I think that big guy from Eleven went down into that grass. There's a ravine just before the woods start." She points to a spot on Peeta's map. "We could chase him into it and light a fire."  
  
Peeta shakes his head. "He's pretty strong. He'd take a few of us down with him. Let him starve a few days."  
  
"Go for the weak ones first?" Glimmer wrinkles her nose. "That could leave us with a smaller group when we have to take down the strong ones."  
  
"Unless we go for the _really_ weak ones," Cato says. "What about that twelve-year-old windfart? Even Twelve here could probably take _her_."  
  
"Oh, good," Peeta says. "Chasing down twelve-year-old girls. That's why I wanted to join someone who got a ten in training."  
  
Cato crouches in front of him. "So you don't want to take the strong ones because it's dangerous, and you don't want to take the weak ones because it's… what, not properly chivalrous? Tell me, loverboy, who _would_ you chase down?"  
  
Peeta smiles coldly. "I have a few ideas."  
  
Char laughs. "Come on, Cato. We can wait for morning. There were eleven down at the Cornucopia. That means there are only seven people out there other than us. They probably all went in different directions. Night hunting for seven people in the whole arena is a waste of time."  
  
Glimmer snorts. "District Four's sure come down in the world. You used to know how to play these Games. Now, what have you got? Excuses." She looks at Peeta. "And really bad judgment."  
  
"Actually," Marvel says, "I think she's right. We can get some rest and wait for dawn." He looks around the group. "Maybe a little before dawn. Then everyone will be sleepy. They'll have a hard time sleeping tonight, and it'll be hard to get up in the morning."  
  
Cato considers it, then nods. "All right. We get a few hours. Twelve and Marvel will take first watch. Then Char and Clove. Then Glimmer and me. At least one person in each pair can fight."  
  
"I can watch with you," Clove offers.  
  
"I need someone I trust to wake me up in time."  
  
This is agreeable to everyone. Marvel and Peeta set up a watch by the fire. After a little while, Glimmer starts to snore. The others don't react. They've dropped off.  
  
Marvel pokes at the flames. "So, what _is_ your game, Twelve?"  
  
"Just trying to do what my mentor told me," Peeta says.  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
"Stay alive."  
  
Marvel laughs. "That's pretty good. But you know you're going to end up breaking that rule, right?"  
  
"Pretty much everyone in here is."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
They're quiet for a little while, then Peeta says, "What about you? What's your game?"  
  
"Stickball."  
  
Peeta frowns. "What?"  
  
"Stickball." Marvel looks up. "At home, there's a whole rivalry between the perfume makers and the furriers. Kind of stupid, I know -- "  
  
"No. Trust me, I get local rivalries."  
  
"Yeah. Well, anyway, we play stickball every year. We lost last year. But I have a bet with the captain of the other team that we'll win _this_ year. I want to collect."  
  
"Oh." Peeta processes this. "That's good."  
  
"Do you do sports in Twelve?"  
  
"Not all that much. Just in school in gym for most people. There's enough exercise just trying to make ends meet. I like sports, though. We don't have enough people to put teams against each other, but we have a wrestling team. We mostly wrestle for rankings against each other."  
  
"What's your rank?"  
  
"Second. One of these days, I'd really like to beat the guy in first."  
  
"Who is he?"  
  
"My brother." Peeta adds some fuel to the fire. Flames lick upward, casting strange shadows on his face. He smiles. "I owe my brothers a thank you," he says. "If they hadn't taught me to fight, I never would have made it at the Cornucopia. Do you have any brothers?"  
  
"Sisters. I'm great at getting my hair pulled."  
  
They talk for a while longer about this, and the camera stays with them. This may be because it's late and everyone else is trying to sleep, or because the Capitol is having a sibling fad. They're wildly in love with Primrose, and a cut to street reactions shows them talking about how strange and exotic it is that this year's tributes are so close to their siblings. Gloss and Cashmere roll their eyes at each other. There was a similar fad the year Cashmere was in the arena, and Gloss was shown working every contact he had to get her through.  
  
My allies start taking their sleep shifts, spelling each other off. Their escorts stay at home. I guess they're not as active as Effie is (though I suppose she'll be sleeping at home as long as I'm here with Brutus). Annie suggests that she and Finnick are my district partners, since Char is Peeta's closest ally. They go take a nap (which may actually involve napping), and come back about twenty minutes after Peeta's watch has ended. They send me off to bed in the mentors' lounge. I tell a runner to wake me in three hours.  
  
I toss and turn for forty minutes, wanting a drink. More than anything. Just a little something to send me off. Anything. Even a beer would be good. I think of the warm little explosion in my brain, the fumes coming up at me…  
  
I can't.  
  
I bury my head in a pillow and make myself think of other things. How to use the way they love Prim. How to get Katniss to move around more and engage without being at risk.  
  
How to bring them both home.  
  
I pound my fist into the mattress. I have to stop thinking about it.  
  
I finally manage a thin and fitful sleep. I dream. I know that I'm dreaming because Maysilee is with me. She's writing on the floor with a charred stick. It's a confusing dream, and I've barely gotten to talk to her when I'm woken up by a spooked looking Capitol Dreams runner. I realize that somewhere in my tossing and turning, I picked up a knife.  
  
It's a good thing my arms are twisted up in the blankets, otherwise I probably would have swung it. I apologize to the girl and get up. My head is fuzzy and my tongue feels strangely thick. This should be a familiar feeling, except that I have no idea how I can be hung over, given that I've had exactly one drink in the last twenty-four hours.  
  
I get myself straightened up, grab some coffee from the buffet table, and go back out.  
  
"You look like a tribute," Finnick says, nodding at the screen, where, in fact, Cato is starting to hustle the others up from sleep.  
  
"Come on," Cato announces. "We're hunting."  
  
Peeta blinks at him groggily. If it were me, I think I'd be grabbing my knife and killing Cato just so I could get some sleep, but Peeta isn't me. It's still dark in the arena, but he's used to getting up in the dark. He stretches, then gets up and starts moving around.  
  
"Who's on guard?" Clove asks. "We can't leave the supplies."  
  
"Char-broil can stay back and guard the camp," Cato decides.  
  
"I'll stay with her," Peeta says. "Just in case anyone else has an alliance and we need to fight more than one."  
  
"Oh, no," Cato says. "You're leading the way, loverboy."  
  
Peeta shrugs elaborately. "Okay." He stands up and picks up two knives, tucking one in his belt and brandishing the other. "Where do you want to start?"  
  
"Maybe we should find your girlfriend," Marvel says. "Being that she'd be such a good _ally._ "  
  
Peeta's performance breaks for a fraction of a second at the sarcasm -- a flash of real anger comes over his face -- but I don't think any of the kids catch it. (Brutus does, and gives me a dirty look.) He grabs Glimmer's bow and hands it to her. "Sounds like a plan," he says.  
  
They gear up, and head for the woods.  
  
This is far earlier than anyone in the Capitol is watching, but it's still within the first twenty-four hours of the Games, so there's at least some constant coverage. They break to the other tributes, breathlessly wondering who's in trouble. Other than the Careers, only Onnisey and Kersey are even awake.  
  
And Kersey is freezing.  
  
She's pacing back and forth in the dark, rubbing her arms and shivering. She's a tiny, skinny girl with a ruined jacket. It's not holding any heat in, and it looks like the arena is very cold. Her breath comes out in little puffs.  
  
She's in a small clearing that looks very familiar. I look around. The long, waving fronds of a willow tree are swaying at the edge of the screen.  
  
Katniss came through here last night. Kersey is somewhere between the snares and…  
  
I look at the main map.  
  
Kersey is about fifty yards from the tree where Katniss is sleeping.  
  
I look over at the District Eight table, where Cecelia is frantically going through her list of sponsorships, probably trying to make it add up to a blanket.  
  
Kersey hasn't slept and is cold and miserable. It doesn't do wonders for her thought processes.  
  
She runs around the edge of the clearing, checking wildly in the underbrush for other sleeping tributes (I assume). She stays perfectly still and listens to the darkness around her.  
  
She doesn't suspect Katniss's presence.  
  
Worse, she has no idea that Cato's party has just entered the woods.  
  
She gathers up dry kindling, piles it onto a flat rock, and looks for a stick to start a fire with.  
  
I stand up and wave to get Cecelia's attention.  
  
She shrugs helplessly.  
  
I have a wild, hopeful moment when she doesn’t seem able to start the fire, but I should have known better. Kids in Eight often start fires in the alleys to keep warm.  
  
The flame catches the kindling.  
  
In her tree, Katniss wakes up. She looks down at her unsuspecting neighbor, first dumbfounded, then furious. She understands exactly what Kersey Green has done. She doesn't know that the Careers are out hunting, but she knows they could be, and she knows that Kersey has just sent up a signal flare.  
  
Cecelia comes over to my table. "Haymitch, lend me money for water. Maybe it will tell her to put it out."  
  
"You can't direct your tributes once they're in the arena," Cashmere says.  
  
Cecelia ignores her. "Haymitch, _please_. It's your girl, too."  
  
"Yeah," I say. "And you see where they're hunting from?" I point at the screen.  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"They'll see a parachute drop as clearly as they'll see the fire."  
  
Cecelia buries her hands in her hair. "I used to babysit her before the Games! She was just a baby. Her mother was my teacher. I went to her… her twelfth birthday party. I gave her a book."  
  
"Clearly, not one on tactics," Enobaria says with an unpleasant grin.  
  
Cecelia raises her hand. She's only carrying a pen, but I have a feeling she could do damage with it just now.  
  
I take her back to her table. "I'll transfer you the money. They might miss the parachute if they aren't looking when it comes down."  
  
"Thank you, I --" Cecelia stops. Her eyes go wide.  
  
I look up at the main screen.  
  
Cato has spotted the smoke.  
  
He pushes Peeta ahead of him into the woods. They don't even bother to conceal their approach, but Kersey, sleep-deprived and hungry, never hears them until they're on top of her. She might even have been starting to doze.  
  
Marvel throws a spear, but it goes wide. Kersey jumps to her feet as Cato raises his spear. "Please!" she screams. "Please no!"  
  
I run back to my station. Katniss is still in her tree. Her eyes are wide.  
  
"PLEASE!"  
  
Cato responds to her pleas by thrusting the spear through her stomach. As she falls backward, it tears upward, almost like she's being unzipped. I see the gray mass of her intestines as she tries to force them back inside. I wish I didn't know what that felt like.  
  
Peeta has stopped at the edge of the clearing. For the first time since the reaping, he's not performing at all. He's standing there, his eyes wide, and I can see a scream coming up. If he lets it out, he'll be next. Brutus's tribute won't put up with a weakness like that.  
  
The others ransack the small camp. Kersey didn't have anything worth taking, but they delight in kicking out her fire.  
  
Peeta goes to her. "Finish," she whispers.  
  
He lifts his knife, but backs away.  
  
Cato, on a high from his kill, decides to get everyone away so that the hovercraft can come for the body. They head into the willow grove, and stop near Katniss's tree. The commentators go wild with this, cutting back and forth between them. If they look up, they'll see her, and she's bound to a tree trunk.  
  
"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" Glimmer asks.  
  
"I'd say yes," Marvel tells her. "Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."  
  
"Unless she isn't dead."  
  
"She's dead," Cato says irritably. "I stuck her myself."  
  
"Then where's the cannon?"  
  
They start arguing among themselves about whether or not they should go check. Peeta is hanging back, looking in the direction they came from. Then he looks up. There's a flash of fear in his eyes when he realizes that they're standing under another tribute. I can't tell whether or not he knows it's Katniss.  
  
Either way, he steels himself, puts his Games face back on, and raises his voice above the fray. "I'll go finish her, and let's move on."  
  
In her tree, Katniss is so shocked at the sound of Peeta's voice that she literally falls from her perch. The Careers luckily don't hear the rustle of it as she catches herself on the branch, holding on through her sleeping bag, her belt keeping her aloft. Claudius is going on at length about how surprised she seems to see her district partner's alliance. Will she see how strong he is, so he can win her before the Games end? Or will she be jealous of his new friends?  
  
While he prattles, Cato waves Peeta off to do murder, and has another argument with Clove about the wisdom of keeping him around.  
  
Meanwhile, Peeta has come back to the clearing. The main screen stays with Katniss and the Careers.  
  
Kersey is on the ground, holding her guts and muttering nonsense to the sky. I hear, "Shh, ma. Rile. Nigh. Hey…" She sees Peeta. "Help… me…"  
  
He kneels down beside her. "I'll help you hide. Tell them you got away before I got here."  
  
"Not… going… anywhere… please… help me."  
  
"I…"  
  
"Please. You… love."  
  
"Yes," Peeta says. "But…"  
  
"Help me." She struggles for breath. "They'll… they'll kill you. Unless I…" She shudders violently. "Use me. Please. Quick. It hurts."  
  
Peeta draws his knife. "I can… my aunt's a butcher. I know where to cut. But --"  
  
" _Please_."  
  
Peeta puts his knife on her neck. The main coverage goes to them.  
  
She is back in her delirium. "Rock man," she whispers. "Rock man. Ma. Rile. Nigh. Hod."  
  
Peeta presses the knife down on her carotid artery. She's lost a lot of blood already, but what's left still comes out like a geyser, drenching Peeta's arms.  
  
She lets go of her stomach and flails her hand around. He catches it, and holds it until she's still.  
  
The main coverage leaves him.  
  
On my small screen, I see him let go of her bloody hand, bend over the bushes, and vomit. His eyes are huge and stormy, and the scream is trapped in his throat again. He pushes his hand into his mouth and bites down to keep it inside, while pounding the other hand on the ground.  
  
While he struggles not to lose his mind, Claudius Templesmith has the main screen split between the Careers and Katniss.  
  
He wonders if she'll be impressed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta forces himself to act natural after the death of the girl from Eight, and, while Katniss becomes progressively thirstier, the Careers continue their hunt. The people of the Capitol are very engaged in the story.

While the commentators natter on about how Katniss might react -- presumably once she's free of the belt binding her to the tree and the wildly impossible position she's gotten herself into -- Peeta forces a kind of control over himself.

It begins with control of his body. He takes his hand from his mouth and gulps in several deep breaths, then holds his hands out, watching them until they stop trembling. Then he stands up slowly from the crouch he's been in, straightening his legs, stretching his chest, finally rolling his shoulders a few times and letting them drop not into a stereotypical heroic squaring, but a casual slouch.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, then opens them again. No one who wasn't watching him three minutes ago would know how close he came to cracking. It's all done quickly and expertly, and I wonder where he's gotten the practice.

Maybe that's a question it's better not to think about.

Slowly, he goes back to Kersey and bends down beside her to close her eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. His voice is soft, but steady. "I don't remember your name. Maybe you'll tell it to me when we see each other again."

Finnick, who's near enough to hear this, looks at me quizzically, but says nothing.

Cecelia goes to call Kersey's parents. She's weeping.

Peeta stands up again and affects a casual gait as he heads back toward where the others are waiting and arguing about whether or not they should kill him. Before they notice him, he looks up at the tree, where he knows at least that someone is hiding. This time, Katniss is in his full view, though she's looking the other way. Her telltale braid is hanging down in the darkness.

Peeta looks away and deliberately (I hope) stomps his way into the group.

"Was she dead?" Cato asks.

"No," Peeta tells him. "But she is now." Kersey's cannon fires.

Cato looks at him, suspicious but impressed. He knows as well as anyone that the Gamemakers don't sound that cannon for nothing, so it means that Peeta is telling the truth -- that he's capable of killing, and has done it.

Peeta looks toward the clearing like it means nothing, then glances briefly at Glimmer's bow. There's no way Katniss could handle taking it from them right now. She's essentially immobilized. If he gives the Careers any reason to notice her, they'll climb up and kill her. He seems to realize this and points off in a direction that will lead them away from her. "Ready to move on?"

They run off to continue the hunt. He actually leads the way. The camera doesn't follow them.

It stays on Katniss, who wisely remains still in her awkward position until their footsteps have faded away. She's starting to move when the hovercraft picks up Kersey, though she waits until it passes before she says, "Move," and begins to gather her things. She drops to the ground and looks off in the direction that the Careers went. She's as good as Peeta, in her own way. I know she's got to be confused. Nothing he did or said where she could hear it would give her the slightest idea of his game plan. But she paints a knowing smile on her face, like she knows all of it.

It's not a lot, but it's enough. The commentators will take it from there, spinning their own theories about what that smile means for the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve.

She heads off into the woods to gather a rabbit from her snares. Without that smile, I'd take it as a mistake -- going back to something that might be watched -- but I have a feeling I know what she's doing. She's being deliberately confident, and she's showing the sponsors that she can't be stopped by something as simple as hunger.

Thirst might do her in if she doesn't turn in a different direction, though. I check the prices on water, and it's not bad as such things go, but a trail of parachutes and bottles aren't going to be helpful to her. With the snares, she's shown self-sufficiency. Finding her own water will build that better than getting it from me. The woods are dotted with tiny ponds. If she can stop looping around, she's bound to stumble on one of them, and that will play much better.

Also, she's actually traveling almost parallel to the Careers, too, so sending her a bottle right now would be murder.

On the main screen, Claudius promises us that he'll have relationship experts on later to judge Katniss and Peeta's "synchronicity of affect," whatever that means.

"Yeah, it's a love story for the ages," Brutus says. "How long will she lead him around by the balls before he decides to betray his allies for her?" He pretends to do some calculations on his fingers. "Oh, wait. He's already betrayed them. Didn't even tell them she was there."

I roll my eyes. "Given that they were talking about when to kill him, I'm not taking your moral outrage seriously."

"Yeah, well, mine's not out there playing knight errant while he's doing it."

"What's your problem, Brutus?" Finnick says. "They're all playing the Games. You know that."

"No, he's not." Brutus wrinkles his nose. "He's playing _some_ game, but not this one. Did you see him on Haymitch's screen, acting like it was just oh-so-painful to finish off that idiot girl from Eight? He probably thought the main broadcast was on him, with that performance."

"I don't think he was acting," Annie says.

"Oh, that's even better. Poor little sensitive special snowflake, so much better than anyone else because it _pains_ him so --"

I stand up and grab the front of Brutus's shirt. His chair rolls back, and I shove him and it into the wall. "I told you to keep your opinions to yourself."

He stands up. He's six inches taller than I am and keeps himself in Career arena shape. "You don't want to lay your hands on me, Abernathy," he says. "Just because you could put down Drake -- a quarter of a century ago, and when he was almost as drunk as you usually are -- don't think you can actually hold your own with us."

I don't let go. "Tell it to Crispus Bidwell."

Brutus looks at me with great distaste. "Oh," he says. "Right. The one from your Games. I barely remember him, and I mentored him. But I bet you just keep track of all of them, don't you? I bet you have a shrine to poor, fallen Crispus, and you cry on it when you're drunk, and make maudlin apologies. Did you send money to Filigree's family, and start an eye replacement campaign? You probably keep pictures of all your losers, too, and make up stories about how they were all good and sweet and so smart that they would have saved the whole world, if only it hadn't been for the bad old Games."

I pull back my arm to punch him, but someone grabs it. Two someones, actually -- Finnick and Beetee.

"He's goading you," Beetee says. "And you're letting him."

I let go and turn away, then go back to my station.

Finnick follows, but Beetee is called back to his table, because Onnisey and Finch have managed to re-start the battery that powers the trigger mechanism on the landmine. It's glowing a soft blue.

Finch reaches in and pulls a wire.

"Hey," Onnisey says. "We just got that."

"And we'll get it again, but let's not blow ourselves up while we figure out where to bury it."

"I told you -- by their supplies. We'll do it one at a time. If they blow one up, we stop for a little while, follow them and bury one any place they camp."

"Right. I'm sure they'll leave the supplies long enough to let us dig a hole, bury a landmine, set it, and then wander off." She shakes her head. "Come on, if we're going to do this, it needs to be something a little less conspicuous. Maybe we could arm it and make a launcher -- just something mechanical -- and just blow up the supplies, so we're all on even footing."

"Like we'd _ever_ be on even footing with those guys." Onnisey shakes his head. "They're tough. I wanted to be on their side, but they wouldn't have me. We can't just cut off their food and wait for them to die. We have to kill them. We have to set the mines."

"But if we made the mines mobile… maybe we could take out the explosive, and make some kind of grenade. Then we'd have a weapon we could use against them, if you want to do it. But going into their camp to set a trap is crazy!"

"It'll work," Onnisey says. "I swear." He smiles. "I'm head of my class in District Three. That means I have some brains, you know."

Finch makes a frustrated, hissing kind of sound. "You're smart, but you're not clever."

"And you are?"

"I am. And I'm telling you -- this is a terrible idea."

"Listen to her!" Beetee shouts at the screen, but of course, it's kind of a pointless gesture.

"We're _both_ smarter than they are," Onnisey says. "They probably aren't even trying to guard it."

"I'm not doing this."

"Well, _I_ am."

"Then you can do it yourself. I'm not going into the middle of their camp to bury something. They're not as dumb as you think they are."

She stalks off into the woods.

Onnisey rolls his eyes extravagantly and mutters something uncomplimentary about District Five's opinion of itself.

At the District Five table, Faraday Sykes makes an obscene gesture at Beetee, then grins and pulls her table away.

Onnisey starts to make his way to the lake.

By the time official coverage starts at ten -- though on the second day, there hasn't really been a break, so it's just marked by the blaring of the Games fanfare -- Peeta and the others are hunting at the edge of the woods, Katniss has managed to cook her rabbit on the coals of Kersey's fire (Cecelia is back, gathering her things, and says she thinks it would be all right with Kersey… then she starts crying again), Rue has found a little stream to wash up in, and Finch has made it down to the grassy area not far from Thresh, though she's smart enough to stay out of his sight. He may not be brutal and bloodthirsty like Cato, but he made it perfectly clear in his interviews that he means to go home, and will do whatever is necessary to make that happen.

Of course, they begin with a recap of the night. In the edited version, Peeta and Marvel have their perfectly normal conversation, and Peeta's expression is absolutely no different when he comes back from killing Kersey. All in a day's work. Onnisey and Finch have a falling out, but the editors are trying to make their project a mystery, even though people will have been following it all day. Rue is shown leaping around in the trees, cross-cut with pictures of her in the fairy-winged dress she wore for interviews.

"And now… we return to the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games!" The recap shatters as if hit by a spear, and the image of the studio is revealed as the recap falls away. Claudius is sitting with a young man who works for a dating service, a woman whose university dissertation is on human attraction (she's been doing data collection among the young and popular, as far as I can tell), and a marriage contract lawyer who claims he can always tell when a couple will seek a contract renewal after the initial term is up.

"And what about our young star-crossed lovers?" Claudius asks jovially. "If they came to your office, what would you think?"

"Well, if you examine how well they're communicating without words in the arena, you can see how intuitively they understand each other. There was never a chance that Katniss Everdeen saw Peeta Mellark's plan, but the smile indicates that she understood his actions perfectly…"

I rub my eyes and ignore him.

"Well, they're certainly _popular_ ," Effie says, coming up to the table. She is as fresh and energetic as she usually is in the morning after coffee, but thankfully, does not seem to have taken her pills. She sits down beside me and hands me my flask. I open it. It's been filled with something sickeningly sweet today. She waits while I take a drink, then says, "We can send water."

I shake my head and show her the map. "They're too close. Besides, with the price of everything else, I don't want to waste money on water. We may need something more important later."

"Haymitch, have you been keeping track of what I've been signing up?"

I have, but I don't want to talk about it where Brutus can hear. I pick up the notebook she pushes at me and write, _We'll talk about that later._

She doesn't need this explained. "I know it doesn’t look like much," she covers. "But I can get us meetings all day if you want them!"

I want them, but I don't want to leave Effie alone with the Careers. This alliance can't last much longer.

For the second day of the Games, it's quite slow. Katniss continues to walk. She seems to be getting concerned about her water situation, and is wisely going downhill. If she misses the ponds and pools, hopefully, she can make it to the wide creek, though her looping, difficult path is taking her wide of everything I can see.

The Careers try to hunt down Thresh, but he's set traps along the edge of his "territory," and Glimmer is caught in one. Peeta barely gets her cut down in time to avoid being seen. They head back to get her treated, and she stays to watch with Cato while the others go back on the hunt.

It's early afternoon when Onnisey decides to bury his landmines. Cato and Glimmer hear him coming and fade into the shadows. Glimmer picks up the bow, but Cato stops her to watch the process, right up until the mine is fully in the ground. Then he throws a spear.

It lands behind Onnisey, past the range of the mine.

Onnisey looks up, his eyes going wide.

"What do we have here?" Cato asks. "District Three trying to be clever?"

"I was…"

"Trying to kill us. Which is a way to play the Game. Maybe not your smartest move, though."

Glimmer laughs. "Put him against the pile. We have apples. I'll see if I can shoot one off his head."

Given the way she shoots, she'd probably put one in the landmine and kill all three of them, but Cato shakes his head anyway. "No," he says. "As long as we're taking non-traditional allies this year, I think I like the idea of someone who can keep our little collection safe. We'll just leave him behind, and between him and the explosives, no one else needs to stay. Oh, I think he's our new best friend."

"He'll just wander off."

"If he does, I'll find him, tie him to a tree with his own intestines, then make him march." He smiles. "And you wanted to be our ally, didn't you? You put in a request."

Onnisey blinks, then says the only thing he can: "Yes. That's all it was. I wanted to impress you."

"I knew it had to be something like that. And, hey. Job well done. When the others get back, you can teach them how to get the mines."

With a heavy sigh, Beetee rolls his table over to us.

The others come back to camp at around three, and after they've had what passes for a civilized meal, Cato directs them back to the Cornucopia to dig up mines (Marvel is left behind to guard the supplies). They don't have shovels -- there are rarely shovels available, for fear that a tribute would try to dig down to the complex beneath the arena, which would spoil the illusion -- but there are broadswords and spears to loosen the dirt, and shields to scoop it with. With six people working, they manage to liberate twelve of the landmines before dark, and they re-bury them in a rough circle around the pile of supplies by the light of a campfire.

Finch has been watching from the tree line through most of it, unnoticed in her perch by anyone except Onnisey. He doesn't mention it, and looks away quickly when he sees her… but carefully orients the group within her sight when he teaches them how to approach safely in a series of long steps and dodges.

"Or we could just reach in with a spear," Marvel suggests.

"If you're sure you won't drop anything. Any solid jolt on top of the mines is going to blow _everything_ up. So walk softly, too."

Katniss, meanwhile, has wandered far enough off course that she's going to run into the edge of the arena before she hits the creek. She climbs a tree about a quarter mile from the edge of the arena and packs herself up to sleep for the night, sucking on the last bone of the rabbit she caught. I wonder if it helps keep some spit in her mouth.

Still, there is a tiny blue mark on the map about fifty yards from where the forcefield will be. A pond or a pool. I ask Effie to get me aerial shots from the day. It won't be easy to see. It's covered in lilies, and surrounded by greenery. But Katniss can make it. I think she's too dazed and confused from water loss to make it to the creek now that she's so far off course, but she _can_ make the little pool.

Though if she hasn't gotten there by noon, I'm going to have to risk sending water, and hope that no one else has made it that far toward the edge, and that I won't need the money for anything else. Letting her die of thirst isn't a great option.

Brutus has gone off to sleep, so when Effie offers to let me get a few winks, I take her up on it. If Brutus comes back before I wake up, I tell her to come get me.

Apparently, he doesn't, because I sleep deeply until a runner comes to gather me at nine o'clock. I send Effie to sleep.

Katniss has also been deeply asleep, but she's waking much more slowly than I am. She's listless and clumsy, and nearly tumbles out of her tree. She fumbles her belongings into her backpack and lurches down the hill.

Something seems to galvanize her suddenly, and she croaks out, "Water."

Of course. It's finally occurred to her that I could send her some. And that's making her just mad enough to keep going. Good.

"Are you going to send her water?" Finnick asks.

"She's almost on top of it," I tell him. "Look."

"She's scared and alone. Maybe it would be good to tell her that you're thinking about her."

Katniss looks hopefully at the sky.

"She knows I'm thinking about her," I say. "She has to know. That's why she asked. And she'll figure it out. She'll know that… that I'll send her water if she's nowhere near it. If she can't get to it herself."

"Are you _sure_?"

I nod.

"How do you know?"

"It's what I'd think." I look at him. "I'll have it ready. But right now, she's on course to hit that pond. And if she can solve her own problem, that's going to help her."

"With the sponsors? You already have a lot of sponsors --"

"With herself."

I can't explain this entirely. There are good, logical reasons for not sending Katniss water. But I also know that if she just sits down and waits for parachutes when things get rough, she'll feel like she's not in control. Sooner or later, there will be things she _can't_ control, but this isn't one of them. If she solves this without a parachute, she'll be in better shape to deal with the next thing that comes along.

And if it looks like she can't, then I'll hit the button and send her a bottle of water, and hope she has the sense to keep the detritus with her, rather than leaving it in the woods like a breadcrumb trail.

I think she probably does.

By ten, I'm getting worried. She's zigzagging her way down the slope, wandering in aimless loops, almost discarding the night vision goggles. Worse, I'm now a little worried about sending in a parachute -- the Careers aren't exactly _near_ her, but Marvel has already come up with the idea to watch for them, and they've seen one land on the island in the lake. They decide to hunt there later, but everyone agrees that parachute watching ought to be a major part of their strategy.

"Of course," Peeta says, "now that you've said it out loud, the mentors will know better than to send any while we're out."

"In case you hadn't figured that out on your own?" Enobaria asks, her eyebrow cocked.

I shrug, but I doubt Peeta's comment was directed at me. He knows I won't jeopardize Katniss. But I imagine he also knows that District Twelve might not be entirely sure why I'm letting her get dehydrated when they know perfectly well that I have money this year.

It's just past noon when Katniss collapses to the ground. I tell Effie to get a parachute ready -- even though she is literally on the other side of some tall grass from the pond -- but she figures it out in time, finding mud on her hands and then crawling into the water. She's even still got her wits about her enough to purify it before she drinks.

As soon as it's safe, I'm going to send her something for having the brains to figure it out.

She slowly drinks herself back to life over the course of the afternoon. It's probably boring the Capitol audience, but I don't care. In the districts, they'll be impressed with her saving herself. She'll be impressed with it. I can see the confidence coming back into her.

"Oh, look. She learned how to fall in the mud." Brutus smirks. "You must be so proud."

"Brutus, really," Finnick says. "There are therapists out there. You should see someone about that death wish of yours. If you're that depressed, they can help. Or don't real men do that?"

Since the most exciting thing happening in the arena at the moment is Glimmer's inept attempt at rabbit-hunting, coverage goes back to the studio, where Claudius has managed to find someone to comment on the Career strategy (and of course, how it's working with the star-crossed lovers story, much to Brutus's vocal annoyance), then he actually takes the time to find commentary on other tributes. Spicer Daby has been exploring his island, which leads to a bit of conversation about the wide open spaces of District Ten. There's an extended safety reminder to parents -- apparently, little Capitol kids have been trying to go from tree to tree in the parks the way Rue is, and the Capitol trees are too well tended for it. The branches simply aren't close enough or strong enough, and there've been two broken arms since the Games began, and they wouldn't want children to get hurt while enjoying the Hunger Games.

Of course, they go back to the star-crossed lovers. They can't seem to stay away for long.

The camera crews are out on the streets of the Capitol, where people are wearing District Twelve tee shirts and wigs done up in long braids. Some of these wigs are purple and green, but most are a hastily dyed inky black. The tee shirts have glittering golden flames on them, and show Katniss and Peeta holding hands in the chariot. Some women are wearing short blond wigs and bright blue contacts. ("Well, that looks about right," Brutus sneers.) Not many men seem to be involved in this particular part of the spectacle, though they do interview a young artist who's been drawing pictures of them on the street corner. He's nowhere near as good as Peeta, but I don't say anything, as he claims that, as soon as he reaches the threshold of what he's spent on supplies, every bit of money he's making will go to sponsoring them.

Two of the fans have made up a dramatic "reunion" scene, where Katniss learns all that Peeta has done for her, and swears her eternal love and devotion, even from "beyond the bounds of death," as the would-be actress pants in front of the gathered street crowd. (In this particular version, Katniss is dying in Peeta's arms for the scene and he goes on a rampage against the remaining tributes.) They also gather up the coins tossed to them, and promise to send it to Effie and me.

"I just can't wait until they really meet up again!" a teenage girl says after the performance. "It'll be so _romantic!_ "

"I hope she won't really be dying, though," her friend says. "They should have a chance to be together before…" She stops, looking confused. "Before… you know."

"I wish they could be together forever!" a little girl says. (This one is dressed up like Primrose.) "It would be like a happily ever after story!"

"Since they can't be," the reporter asks, "who would you like to see win?"

The little girl bursts into tears before the production team abruptly cuts away.

"Sadistic bastards," Finnick grumbles beside me.

I nod, though this was the plan. It's working perfectly.

 _Make it hurt them_ , Peeta said, and it's definitely hurting them. Starting with little girls whose biggest crime is being born in the Capitol.

I'm starting to feel like I'm the most sadistic bastard of all.

Not much happens on the third day of the Games. The audience members who aren't Katniss and Peeta's fans are starting to get restless, and I know I can't count on the Gamemakers keeping things calm for another day. Effie gets a solid six hours of sleep before the evening's mandatory viewing time. After the mandatory time is over, I wait for Brutus to go off to bed, then leave Effie in charge so I can get some sleep. If they haven't forced a confrontation, they won't do it until tomorrow, when people are watching again.

I head back to the mentors' lounge, where the curtains are drawn around a lot of beds. Some sound like it's not snoring going on behind them. Personally, I can't imagine a less private place for that -- short of the arena, I guess -- but apparently, it doesn’t bother some people. I finally find an unoccupied bed near the back and crash down onto it.

I dream about Maysilee Donner.


	13. Chapter 13

I find her at my cliff at the end of the world.  
  
Inside the arena, everything is the same as it was. The scrubby grassland, the back of the hedge, the sharp drop-off before the forcefield comes down and separates the arena from the rest of the world. Maysilee and I are the same -- sixteen years old, our clothes tattered and worn from our time in the arena. Her hair is sawn off roughly, which she did to free herself of the matting that happened almost immediately. The following year, people would try to imitate the cut. I'm covered with little cuts and bruises, and I'm hungry. I've been hungrier. I'd gone longer without eating at home than I ever did in the arena.  
  
I see her there on the cliff, the place she turned away from me in life, and I go up to join her. Beyond the forcefield, I can see several districts, and the Capitol. People are working busily in all of them. Though it ought to be impossible to recognize anyone from this distance, I clearly see Effie working her connections. Danny is drawing on the paper that will go under a cake (not only can I see that he's drawing, I can tell from here that he's making one of the pictures the street artist was making of Katniss and Peeta). Drake is hiking around in the mountains in District Two. Plutarch is strutting around the Gamemakers headquarters. I even see myself in Victors' Village, drinking heavily and staring at Mimi's statue, which is alive and dancing around.  
  
"It's nice up here," Maysilee says without turning to look at me. "You can see a long way. I should have come with you."  
  
"I shouldn't have let you walk away."  
  
"I didn't ask your permission." She turns and smiles, and her long, golden hair grows back. She looks at it and raises an eyebrow at me. "Really, Haymitch? Aren't you a little old to be worrying about my looks?"  
  
"We're the same age. Especially here."  
  
"Have you brought me with you, all the way to the dizzying heights of being forty?"  
  
"I brought them all with me. Not much of a view from up here."  
  
Maysilee sits down on a rock that's conveniently appeared (it was further up the cliff face in the arena). "I think I'd like to be forty."  
  
"I know _I'd_ like it if you were forty. I mean, I wouldn't know you, but it would have been a good trade. You'd be better at being forty."  
  
"So make me forty. Would I still look like Kay?" For a moment, her image flickers, and she becomes her twin, Kay Undersee, bent under the pain of her old injury and the addiction to the painkillers she uses for it. Then she's Maysilee again. She sighs. "It wouldn't have to be like that. You don't have to be like you are, either. You can be who you were supposed to be. You be forty like you should be. Show me."  
  
I try, but I can't change my shape. "Sorry. I'm not good at it."  
  
"Show me," she says again.   
  
I think about what I am now, and suddenly, I'm here, dressed in my fine, filthy clothes, my hair a matted mess, stains from spilled booze all over me. From the feel of my face, I haven't shaved in a couple of weeks.  
  
She sighs and touches my shoulder, and the years melt away. I am back to sixteen, like I always have been here.  
  
"Abernathism," she says. "A belief system predicated on the idea that the proper response to everything is that it's impossible, and all the world deserves is a big eye-roll."  
  
I smile. "As opposed to Donnerism, which is based on the idea that guys who tie their shoes together with packing string can change the world by snapping their fingers."  
  
"You don't tie your shoes together with packing string anymore, Haymitch. You're not sixteen, you're not poor, and you're not powerless."  
  
"Well, not sixteen and poor, anyway."  
  
"You were never powerless." She takes my hands in hers. "And you have changed the world."  
  
"The Games are still going on. Snow is still in power."  
  
"There's more to the world than the Games." She thinks about it. "But it's the Games you know, isn't it?"  
  
"It's all I know."  
  
She smiles. "No, it's not. But that's not what you're trying to tell yourself, is it? What are you telling yourself, Haymitch?" She becomes Mom now, her bony fingers twined through mine. I realize with a bit of a start that I'm only two years younger than she was when she died, but she still looks ancient to me. "What is all of this?" she asks. "What did you bring Maysilee here for? And the others? What are you reaching for?"  
  
"I don't know. Nothing that'll work."  
  
"You brought them because you've loved them. Every year, you've loved them because there's no one else here to love them."  
  
"For all the good it did."  
  
Her shape changes again, and she's Effie. Ronka Blaney comes up and steals a wig from her (there's another underneath it), and Butterfly Skaggs is nearby, glowering at a set of forks. Effie smiles and puts a warm hand on my face. She's fully herself, and I kiss her palm. She straightens a curl. "Of course it did good. What's more powerful than that?"  
  
"Most of them could have done with less love and more weapons."  
  
"But they're not the only ones you love." She nods down the cliff, and I see a group of my sponsors having a picnic. "Lonely people, like you and me. All of them. They need someone to love. Just like you do."   
  
She changes again. Now, she's Katniss, though she's dressed in Maysilee's uniform, right down to the mockingjay that they should have let Maysilee wear. She is looking at me solemnly, this girl who has somehow brought it full circle, back to the end and the beginning. She is carrying one of her father's bows, the kind Digger was trying to trade for when she died. She's as fragile as Mom, and as lonely as Effie or Mimi. I see all of them in her.  
  
But I mostly see me, before I managed to throw away everything I had. I try to tell myself that it's just ego, and that even if it's not, that's hardly a good thing. But I look into those solemn gray eyes and for the first time in more years than I remember, I feel like there's a real, tangible future.  
  
"You're coming home," I tell her.  
  
She lets go of my hand and stands up, then goes to the cliff edge. She doesn't have any words of wisdom for me. Of course she doesn't. She's not in Maysilee's uniform, she's in mine. I don't know what I'm trying to tell myself, so of course Katniss won't. How could she?  
  
She turns her head and looks over her shoulder. "So, what are we going to do?"  
  
"Stay alive."  
  
"But after that. What comes after that?"  
  
"What do you expect -- a happily ever after? Look at me. No such thing."  
  
"Yeah, I guess." She bites her lip. "Only, what if that's what everyone wants?"  
  
"It's impossible."  
  
Beside me, Maysilee laughs. The two of them look at each other, the mockingjay pin duplicated and reflected in the sun, bursts of light arcing in the air around me. "Abernathism," she says, rolling her eyes. "You need a new philosophy, Haymitch… and you need it now."  
  
"I _can't_."  
  
"How do you know? You've never tried."  
  
The dream begins to break up after this. I wander the arena, changing ages sometimes. I see Drake, and all of my tributes. The Cornucopia fountain is gone, and Mimi's is in its place, though she doesn't appear. I have the impression that the fountain is her grave, and I keep trying to put flowers on it, but they crumble to dust before they reach her.  
  
 _Lonely people, like you and me. All of them. They need someone to love. Just like you do._  
  
I open my eyes in the dark of the mentors' lounge. There's snoring going on now, and nothing else that I can hear. A clock tells me that it's four-twelve in the morning. I've slept for a little over five hours.  
  
Love.  
  
They need someone to love.  
  
The idea that comes to me is hardly even in my head. It seems to be residing in my solar plexus, trying to work its way out.  
  
Peeta wants to sacrifice himself for love of Katniss. Katniss sacrificed herself out of love for her sister. And there's… whatever it is between them that made her voice go small and soft when she said she'd been helped.  
  
I love them both, even on only a few days of really knowing them. I believe in them both.  
  
And I want them both back.  
  
What if the others, who need someone to love so much, want them both back as well?  
  
I know what I need to do, but it's a huge risk. If Snow suspects what it could really mean, he'll likely order both of them killed by mutts.  
  
I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling of the dark lounge. There's soft emergency lighting, and it casts shadows on the decorative moldings.  
  
 _You're not sixteen, you're not poor, and you're not powerless._  
  
I need to pay a visit to Aquila Grant, and the other ladies from the Daughters. I think Finnick can help, if he's willing. I actually think he can help a lot. Maybe Seeder. Chaff and Johanna are friends, but for this, I don't think they'd be helpful.  
  
Cecelia.  
  
And Effie.  
  
And Caesar, of course. Caesar Flickerman will be the linchpin. That's the weak spot, too -- Caesar's a good and decent man in his way, but he's not as easy to fool as people think. He'll know what I'm doing as soon as I ask, and he could derail me in a second. I doubt he'd turn me in for sedition, but will he go along? I'm just not sure.  
  
I am lying there, trembling with the audacity of the idea that's growing in my head, when I hear the rapid footsteps of one of the Capitol Dreams runners. I sit up and throw aside the curtain.  
  
The girl runs up, panting, and barely catches her balance when she totters on one training heel. "Fire," she says. "In the arena. Miss Trinket sent me for you."  
  
I don't bother with my schemes or my shoes. I run out to the Viewing Center.  
  
Katniss is up on the main screen, so they must have cut into early morning programming to show this development.  
  
I was _sure_ they'd leave her alone until daytime coverage started.  
  
That means the fire isn't the main event.  
  
I look up at the map. The line of fire is pushing Katniss away from the forcefield. It curves around at the southern boundary, nudging her back up the hill. It's also caught Finch, who has been hovering not far from the Career base camp, using Onnisey's instructions to get past the landmines and steal food. While Katniss runs almost directly north, Finch veers off and goes toward the lake and the high grasses. This will eventually lead her to Thresh, but Katniss is in more immediate danger.  
  
The Careers know the Games, and know the tricks. They know the fire is flushing _someone_ out, and Cato leads them all into the woods just ahead of it, leaving Onnisey to guard alone (with a renewal of threats to his personal safety if he's not there when they get back). If it were a natural fire, this would be foolish, but the straight line of the flames is more than enough to reveal it as a fake. Cato just keeps them ahead of it. Peeta must realize who the Gamemakers are flushing, because he's frantically trying to convince them to go back and wait for people to run from the shelter of the trees. He's ignored.  
  
Katniss herself is running wildly, staying barely ahead of the flames. She's pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth as a rudimentary air filter, but she can't get low enough to stay under the smoke. By the time she's been running for five minutes, she's in clear distress. A clumsy leap over a burning log has set her jacket on fire. She's smart enough to save what she can, but it won't hold in much heat. She finally dodges under a rock outcropping and vomits, falling to her hands and knees. She stays there for a minute, trying to catch her breath in the hot and smoky hell of the arena.  
  
Then something hisses, and the fireballs start to explode out at her.  
  
I don't know what the Gamemakers even think they're imitating. Growing up around the mines, we saw a lot of simulated explosions. None of them spit out flying balls of flame. These things look more like something spit out of a volcano.  
  
Katniss runs.  
  
There's nothing else she can do, and nothing at all that I can do. This is the kind of attack that no mentor can adjust for. All I can do is sit here and watch to see if she makes it through.  
  
Finally, the attack seems to slow down enough for her to take a few shaky breaths, then vomit again. Her braid tumbles down by her face, and she puts her hand on the end of it. A few hairs crumble to ash (an inset shows a distraught little Capitol girl stroking her dolly's long braid).  
  
Then the last fireball comes.  
  
She's relaxed too much to move in time, and it skids across her lower leg, setting her clothes on fire. At this, atavistic horror finally seems to set in. She scrambles backward, crabwise, her hands on the ground, going over hot coals. She shrieks.  
  
Luckily, the Careers are too disoriented by the smoke to be able to track her, though Peeta clearly recognizes her voice. He points in a random direction and insists the sound is coming from there.  
  
Claudius's jovial laugh comes over the scene, and the studio returns to view. "Well, well," he says. "I guess Katniss Everdeen really _was_ on fire this morning." He recaps the fire attack, showing how close all of the tributes now are, then says, "We'll be back live at ten, and don't forget mandatory viewing tonight!"  
  
Katniss has actually stumbled nearly on top of Rue's hiding spot, and she's weak and injured, but I guess even the Gamemakers don't have visions of Rue taking advantage of that.   
  
Programming returns to a show about the best ways for Capitol families to get around their income-based credit limits when borrowing for this fall's home fashions.  
  
Luckily, she's pretty much walking into one of the shallow ponds in this part of the forest, so I won't have to divert anything to getting her rehydrated.  
  
Katniss lurches forward a little bit, seems to realize that her feet are wet, and begins to take care of her hands.  
  
"Come on, sweetheart," I whisper. "Check the leg. I need to see it."  
  
It takes her a long time, and I'm guessing she's imagining the kinds of burns we see in Twelve all the time after mining accidents. It could be. I don't know. Neither her nano-cam nor the ones hidden in the foliage are getting a good look.  
  
She finally sits up and gingerly moves her leg. I'm instantly relieved. It's red and ugly, but it's not charred. The tissue and nerves are most likely still alive. Which means she's in considerable pain, but it will heal, if I can get her help.  
  
I turn to Effie. "I need you to go to Portia," I tell her. "Find out if that ointment she used is good on a burn, or if there's another kind we need to ask for."  
  
"You don't think Cinna's beautiful costume drew that on her, do you?"  
  
I nod grimly. It was certainly unintended. I probably should have thought of it. After all, Cinna doesn't know Snow. I do. I should have realized.  
  
I turn to the list, then check today's prices. Even as I'm looking, the price of the ointment doubles. It will take almost everything I have. Whatever plans I have for anything beyond getting her through this are going to have to wait.  
  
And waiting is all there is to do.  
  
Peeta leads the Careers down the hill, until they finally stumble on the stream, where Peeta's luck holds up. This section of the arena has slate cliffs, which bounce sound around -- which he demonstrates by shouting -- and they accept that it has somehow made the shrieks they heard echo to a point of being impossible to locate. I'm no physicist, but I gather from the expression on Beetee's face that Peeta has just fed them a line that they never would have bought if they'd brought Onnisey along.  
  
They decide to stop and have breakfast from their rations, then Cato goads Marvel into a sparring match, mostly to get themselves on the broadcast. He refers to it as a "demonstration." Peeta wisely refrains, choosing to tend their cook fire instead. Marvel is hesitant about the fight, jabbing feebly until Cato knocks his spear away and closes in, pressing the flat of the sword against his chest.  
  
"You're worse than loverboy," he says. "At least he can do it."  
  
"I can do it."  
  
"Yeah? Prove it."  
  
"On who? We're still allies."  
  
"Come on, you know most of them are in this part of the woods. That oaf from Eleven is keeping them out of the grass. I saw you set traps. Set one. Catch someone."  
  
Marvel snorts. "Right, that would look good on television. Catch them in traps and spear them when they can't move."  
  
"Odair did it. Went through half the field that way. People loved it."  
  
I glance over at Finnick. He doesn't talk much about his Games. He is carefully not responding now, though he's close enough that I can see how white his knuckles are around the pen he's holding.  
  
Marvel and Cato bloody each other up a little bit, then Clove challenges Marvel. Glimmer and Char roughhouse on the rocks. By the time they finish, they all look a little banged up.  
  
After this bizarre playtime, the Careers continue to hunt in an area of the woods where no one is hiding. Rue has climbed a tree across the pond from Katniss, and is watching her warily, ready to run if she needs to. I doubt Katniss has the slightest idea that she's there. She's dozing in and out, her body dealing with shock.  
  
Onnisey turns his back elaborately, and lets Finch steal more food. She takes only enough to eat for the day, and carefully places things so the Careers won't notice.  
  
Thresh gets into a little tangle with a mutt. It looks like a really large weasel. He ends up eating it for breakfast.  
  
Cinna and Portia meet me for lunch at the little restaurant in the Viewing Center. Portia says that the ointment in the supply book will work for burns.  
  
"But you have to let them cool down first," she says. "I burned myself a lot while I was working on that plasma for the costumes. I used the ointment four hours after I got burned once, and it was still too hot. It just sealed the burn in and got infected and blistery. The doctor told me I should wait about twelve hours."  
  
"I hope she doesn't have to run too far in the next twelve hours," I say.  
  
"I hope not, too," Cinna says. "I never even thought of… what's she done to them that they'd need to mock her like that?"  
  
"She upstaged Snow," I say. "But it's not your fault."  
  
"So whose fault is it? I'm the one who made up that _stupid_ girl on fire bit."  
  
"You got her enough sponsors that I can send her medicine," I tell him. "If you want to be mad, be mad at the Gamemakers, not yourself."  
  
He looks at me, and I'm pretty sure there's at least one Gamemaker that we're both mad at. I don't dare yell at Plutarch right now, but he's high up in the Games hierarchy. He'd never consider worrying about Katniss's comfort levels, but I would never have thought he'd let them mock something that's a viable rebel symbol.  
  
During the afternoon, the Careers seem to realize that they're on a wild goose chase -- probably because the Gamemakers send a flock of mutt hummingbirds to drive them back in the other direction -- and turn back toward the part of the woods where Katniss and Rue are hiding. They're miles away, though, and it's almost time for mandatory viewing when they get back to where they started. The arena barely shows the fire marks, because that would be boring. There's still smoke hanging in the air, but plants have come back up from the underground nurseries, and it takes them a moment to realize that they've gotten here. They look around and blink, red-eyed, at their surroundings.  
  
"Whoever it was, we must have been on top of them," Clove complains, throwing a knife into a tree in frustration.  
  
"If they were in the middle of that, they're hurt." Cato looks at Peeta. "Hey, loverboy, See any sign of your girl?"  
  
Peeta shakes his head, and this time, I doubt he's covering for her. Any tracks that Katniss may have left are gone, and she hasn't exactly been setting snares. Of course, she was hurt and took the path of least resistance to end up where she is, which isn't far, so there's not much chance of them not finding her.  
  
I will her to be ready to move. She's been soaking her leg all day, but at least looks like she might be contemplating a relocation now. She's packed her things.  
  
Mandatory viewing begins. They recap the fire again, then cut to the Careers, because Char announces that she can smell water.  
  
Annie gives me an apologetic look.  
  
The Careers begin to trample down the woods on the way to the pond where Katniss is.  
  
She hears them at least a minute away. She doesn't bother trying to hide her own sounds -- she runs across the shallow pond, splashing all the way until she reaches the base of a tree. The Careers have split up, spreading out to chase down their prey. They call to each other, their voices smoke-raspy.  
  
"There!" Glimmer yells.  
  
Katniss grabs hold of the tree trunk with her burned hands and starts to climb. She's quite a ways up when they reach the tree. The limbs will block projectiles, but as far as I can see that's the only protection.  
  
They all look at each other. Peeta looks away quickly, glancing at the bow, but I doubt Katniss sees his signal.   
  
She forces a smile, like she did when she first saw Peeta with them, and calls down, "How's everything with you?"  
  
I can hear the tightness in her voice, and I'm sure the Capitol will, too, but I don't need to wait for commentary to know they'll chalk it up to the burn pain. They'll eat up the insouciance as she banters with Cato, too.  
  
I'm relaxing a little bit. Maybe Peeta even can talk them into taking her, then they can steal the bow and run away.  
  
Then she invites Cato to climb up after her.  
  
I stand up. "What the--"  
  
But it becomes obvious very quickly. When it comes right down to it, Katniss may have a lot of inner strength, but outwardly, she's a wisp of a District Twelve girl. She climbs so far up the tree that the limbs will never hold Cato's weight. A branch breaks, and he's thrown to the ground. It just knocks the wind out of him, but Brutus still gives me a dirty look.  
  
Glimmer tries to climb the tree and fire at Katniss between the branches. Katniss looks down at her with the unfeigned disgust of a seasoned professional watching a rank amateur. She actually mockingly grabs one of the arrows and waves it down.  
  
Glimmer also loses her footing and falls down. Since she's the smallest of the Careers, the others don't try.  
  
They grumble for a while about setting a real fire to get her down. Cato, Clove, and Glimmer all think it can be done, but Char and Marvel are worried about it spreading too fast to get away from. Peeta is staring up at Katniss and not participating. I can't figure out what's going on in his head. She's certainly blown any chance of getting close enough to them to get to the bow.  
  
He finally raises his voice above the fray. "Oh, let her stay up there," he says, doing his best to sound impatient and bored with the whole business. "It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."  
  
She has at least found a solid fork in the tree. I'll be able to drop a parachute with the ointment to her as soon as she's ready to rest. As she tries to settle in for the night, which can't be easy with so many burns, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I look up to find Seeder, who's carrying a mobile screen. She points at a tree, and I realize that Rue is still nearby, watching very carefully.  
  
Seeder winks.  
  
"What's she going to do?" I ask.  
  
"No idea, but I thought you'd want to know she was there." She taps the screen again, and I see something circular hanging from the tree. A wasp nest. Or, more likely, tracker jackers. We had one in our pine tree once when I was little. Dad had to smoke the bugs to sleep, then poison them with something he got at the apothecary. He made Mom and Lacklen and me go into town while he did it. The smoke's done, but I can't imagine what Katniss is going to use for a fumigating poison.  
  
She shrugs casually and turns around, flashing the back of her handheld at me. On it, she's stuck a note: "Get boy out."  
  
She goes back to the District Eleven table. I look at the nest, hanging from a branch. Hanging right above the spot where Peeta's allies are waiting impatiently to kill Katniss.  
  
I would suddenly love to take Seeder's advice, but I can't think of a single thing that will prod Peeta away from that tree.  
  
Katniss's eyelids are drooping when she seems to come awake abruptly. She looks across at Rue.  
  
"Ah-ha!" Claudius says. "It seems our fiery girl may have an ally after all!" He cuts to a shot of Rue in her fairy princess dress, and places it next to Katniss in her finery. I guess it's more subtle than the fire joke, but not much: _Look, she's found a silly little girl to idolize her._  
  
But whatever Rue is, silly doesn't fit. She points to the nest and makes a sawing motion.  
  
Katniss gets it immediately, but wisely waits until the anthem plays at the end of mandatory viewing, which covers up the sound of the branch. Unfortunately, it's not long enough. She's most of the way through, but the rest will have to wait. Even Cato isn't dumb enough to just sit there and wait for her to finish dropping wasps on them.  
  
I take the opportunity to order the ointment from the book, and while she's sawing, the parachute descends gently into the fork of the tree. It's depleted my reserves to what I usually have, which isn't enough to buy anything else for a while, unless I get a lot more sponsors. But if she's going to get away, it's necessary.  
  
When she crawls back, she finds it and opens it. As soon as her finger touches it, I can tell it's going to work. She holds it up to the camera, then says, "Oh, Haymitch. Thank you."  
  
I'm not sure how to respond to that. None of them has ever said that, at least not so sincerely. I've never been able to send them anything so extravagant, of course, but it's a necessary extravagance, and she… well, I have the money for _her_.  
  
I think of my dream, of her looking at me and saying, _So, what are we going to do?_  
  
"Stay alive," I tell her.  
  
She seems determined to obey that order, and proceeds to put the ointment on her wounds, then goes to sleep.  
  
Peeta doesn't. He stays awake at the base of the tree, even when it's someone else's turn to guard. They don't let him guard alone, but when Marvel is on guard with him, he talks in a low, soft, even tone until the other boy falls asleep.  
  
"Katniss!" Peeta whispers. "Katniss, come down. Please. You can."  
  
But she's long asleep, as her flesh knits itself back together. When Marvel wakes up, he's in an ecstasy of terror about what Cato will do to him, but Peeta promises not to tell.  
  
I don't go back to the mentors' lounge, but Effie makes me put my head down on the table "for just a few minutes," and she doesn't wake me until dawn, when Katniss wakes up and signals to Rue to get away. She heads for the nest. A golden tracker jacker is crawling on the outside.  
  
She begins to saw.


	14. Chapter 14

Peeta has finally fallen asleep, but his years of early mornings at the bakery pay off. He's already starting to wake up with the dawn, no matter how little sleep he got, and when the faint sound of sawing starts coming from above, I see his eyelids flicker. I hope it will be enough, because there's nothing I can send, even a bottle of water to drop on him and nudge him the rest of the way awake. Even if I could think of something surefire, I don't have money after sending the ointment. Maybe by later today, the coffers will be refilled, but nothing that happens now can be stopped.  
  
I have to trust him.  
  
"What does she think she's doing?" Brutus roars, coming out of the lounge, his bathrobe tied around him. "Abernathy! What's she doing?"  
  
"Playing the game," I tell him.  
  
"Stop her!"  
  
"She's not your ally."  
  
"Yeah, well, that thing's going to fall on your boy, too. So much for his pretty little face. An epic love story for the ages there."  
  
He's right about that. Katniss could easily destroy her good will with this, but of course, as far as she knows, Peeta's joined the enemy out of spite. But it's too late to stop it.  
  
Brutus goes to his station and starts looking for something to help his tributes. Enobaria comes out a minute later, actually wearing day clothes. Gloss and Cashmere look like they've also been at the table all night, and Finnick is placing early morning calls to sponsors while Annie presses her hands into the table, frantic. Making her mentor is sadistic; she isn't going to make it through the Games.  
  
A tracker jacker stings Katniss in the knee, but she doesn't scream or stop sawing. Now, Peeta's eyes are open. He's closest to Clove, and he shakes her, but she's groggy and slow.  
  
I don't know if he would call out to wake the others and stop Katniss's plan, but he never gets a chance.  
  
The branch breaks with a thunderous crack, and comes crashing down through the limbs of the tree. The nest bursts open.  
  
I can see on Katniss's screen that she takes at least two more stings, but the swarm stays near the ground, where all of the Careers are now up and screaming. There's coverage on the main screen. Peeta manages to drag Clove up and shove her ahead into the woods, yelling, "To the lake!" I don't know how fast the tracker jackers fly, or how far they'll really follow. There are legends, of course, that they'll keep following until they kill you, that they hold grudges like crows. I don't know what the truth is. I wanted to test it when we had the nest in our tree, but Dad, in one of his few moments of strictness, absolutely forbade the experiment.  
  
Marvel is furthest from the tree, and Peeta manages to yank him to his feet. Cato is also up and alert, and all three boys, along with Clove, rush uphill through the trees. The wasps follow. There's nothing to fight them with. It's like trying to fight poison rain, though Cato gives it his best shot, swiping at them uselessly with his spear.  
  
Back in the clearing, Char was on the far side of the tree from anyone who was awake, and she's surrounded by wasps. They sting her over and over as she finally gets her footing and heads up the hill, but I can tell it's too late. So can Annie and Finnick, judging by the way they're holding onto each other.  
  
Worst of all is Glimmer, who was closest to the point where the nest broke open. The wasps wrap around her like a living shroud, filling her with poison as she screams. At the District One table, Cashmere is standing up and tearing at her hair while Gloss tries to calm her down. With a final, agonized scream, Glimmer falls to the ground, and the insects rise up from the grotesque, red form of a girl who was once very beautiful.  
  
Most of the swarm has been following the others to the lake, but as soon as Glimmer is down -- not dead yet, but down -- the Gamemakers decide that this gambit is over. The tracker jackers pause, hovering, as the full swarm forms, then as if switched off, simply fall to the ground, dead. I don't know how they'll clear away the dead insects. Plutarch once explained to me that arena mutts (unlike the uncontrollable war mutts used in the Dark Days) are under the total control of the Gamemakers because their central nervous systems aren't biological. They're computers of some kind, and they _can_ literally be switched off. ("Not back on, though," he told me with unmistakable frustration. "The labs are working on it, but for now, the biological components deteriorate too rapidly when they lose power.") That's how they control attacks in the arena, when any natural animal would follow its instinct to flee the scene.  
  
None of the kids know that the tracker jackers are gone, though Char is still alert enough to realize that the ones attacking her have gone off to join the swarm. She lies on the hillside, taking shallow gasps of air. Her eyes are wide. I can't imagine what she's seeing. I don't want to.  
  
At the lake, Clove and the boys dive into the water and start frantically swatting at the stings.  
  
Katniss has the same idea.  
  
She climbs down unsteadily and goes to the little pool where she washed up after her burns, and pulls stingers out of her three wounds. She goes underwater to try and cool herself. I can see that she's disoriented.  
  
At the lake, Peeta comes up out of the water first. He's taken four stings from the swarm, but still seems relatively all right. Clove and Marvel are obviously hallucinating, screaming. Cato has a sting under his eye, which has swollen up.  
  
Peeta slips up onto the shore and looks around. I don't know if he realizes that the tracker jackers are gone, or if he's just trying to be noble and not caring. Either way, he heads into the woods. He comes across Char first. She's seizing up.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says.  
  
Her fists clench and she screams at the sky, but before Peeta has to be forced to do anything, she goes still. The cannon doesn't sound yet, but Annie's screen goes dark.  
  
Peeta clenches his teeth and forces himself onward. He's taken one more sting than Katniss, but he's got a good thirty to forty pounds on her, and it seems to be keeping the toxins at bay for the moment.  
  
Katniss has pulled herself out of the pond and onto some rocks, where she's staring strangely into space. Suddenly, she becomes galvanized. I think at first that she's hallucinating like the others, but she's not. She has a job to do -- the same one that I suspect Peeta is planning to do for her.  
  
She gets there first.  
  
The bow is trapped in Glimmer's swollen hands, and the quiver is beneath her. Katniss reaches her as the cannon goes off, and tries to pull on the bow. It doesn't work. She picks up a stone. I want to close my eyes, but I don't. She has to do it, and I have to witness it. There's no choice.  
  
She breaks Glimmer's fingers and retrieves the bow.  
  
I do close my eyes as she turns the body over to get the quiver. I see that the flesh is bursting open, and I shove away visions that try to return to my head, visions of my girl on the fence, her cooked body falling apart as we tried to get her down.  
  
"What are you still doing here?"  
  
I open my eyes.   
  
Peeta has come into the clearing, his eyes a little wild. Katniss is staring in shock at the bow and arrows that have come to her at this cost.  
  
"Are you mad?" he asks her. "Get up, get up!"  
  
I look at the main screen. Cato has passed Char's body, and is charging through the woods, vengeance in his eyes.  
  
I understand Peeta's plan. He meant to grab the bow and arrows -- I doubt he knew what he'd need to do to get them -- then run into the arena with Katniss. But Cato found out too soon.  
  
"Run! Run!"  
  
Cato breaks into the clearing just as Peeta manages to shove Katniss into a downhill run. He starts to go after her, but a spear strikes the tree beside him.  
  
He stops. If he follows her, Cato will track them down, and she can't take him in her current state.  
  
He draws his knife.  
  
I put my hand on my head. Near the bottom of the slope, Katniss stumbles and falls, but manages to catch her feet somehow, though I don't think she has the slightest idea where she is.  
  
Peeta straightens his shoulders. "You're not going after her," he says.  
  
Cato pulls his sword from the sheath slung over his back. "You think so? You're going to stop me?"  
  
"I'll do what I have to."  
  
Cato laughs wildly. With more cameras on him, I can see that he's taken at least seven stings, though he's even bigger than Peeta, so it's hard to judge how they're affecting him. "I was starting to think you had a brain, you know. A _plan_. I was trying to figure it out. But I had you pegged right in the first place, _Loverboy._ I knew I couldn't trust you. You were in it for _her_."  
  
"Yeah, I was. You should learn to trust those instincts, Cato." Peeta tries to circle around him, but Cato blocks him. "What did you think? I wanted to learn life lessons from you?" Peeta smiles oddly. "I knew everything you had to teach me by the time I was eight."  
  
Cato makes a half-hearted stabbing motion, mostly meant to frighten Peeta (though there's no sign of it working). "So what happened? What made you start thinking with your balls instead of your brain? Is she really that good?"  
  
"I'd tell you to grow up, but I don't think you're going to get the chance."  
  
"Is that what you think?"  
  
"It's what I know."  
  
Cato takes another swipe, though he's too far from Peeta for it to be effective. I realize that he's not taunting or teasing. The swollen eye is interfering with his depth perception. He's using the banter to test exactly how far apart they are.  
  
"Peeta, _run_ ," I whisper. I know he won't. Cato is still off balance. He could attack, probably get a surprise wound in on Cato to slow him down, and run off until he finds a place to hide for both himself and Katniss.  
  
But he doesn't. He's making his stand, and he's trying to fight fair. It's never a winning strategy in the Games.  
  
I look at Katniss's screen, hoping to find her sneaking up with her bow and arrows, but the tracker jacker stings have taken their toll. She's fallen into a hollow full of orange daylilies and is either unconscious or close to it. No one is approaching her; I can't give her any more attention.  
  
Back in the clearing, Cato makes another experimental swing, and it's close enough that Peeta steps back from it. "What does she do for you, anyway?" he asks. "Skinny little thing like that. She doesn't look like she's got the stamina to go long. What does she do that's got you following her around like a little trained dog? It must be good, whatever it is. Maybe I'll have her demonstrate when I catch her. Before I unzip her guts."  
  
It's an empty threat in the arena, and Peeta knows it, but I can see the anger coming up in his eyes, the anger that will make him stupid. "She'd kill you before you could get in fifty yards of her."  
  
"I treed her yesterday. She likes those hiding places that it's hard to get out of. She'll find one, and I'll wait her out."  
  
"She's armed now," Peeta says. "You're an idiot if you try that."  
  
Cato's eyes flash. "Armed? She took Glimmer's weapon, didn't she?" He moves in and gives Peeta a shove. "You're a traitor! We took you in. Char said you belonged, but you're siding with the girl who murdered her!"  
  
Peeta shoves back. "You cornered her! You're the one who wouldn't leave. You knew she had an eleven, and you knew she meant to live. Char and Glimmer both, they're on you, Cato." He nods at Glimmer's body, which the hovercraft can't pick up until both boys leave. Or die. Neither of them mentions that it was Peeta's idea to camp under the tree.  
  
I feel something warm, and realize that Annie has taken my hand. Finnick is probably calling Char's family right now (she's willing, I'm sure, but they don't need her stammering and frightened, and she knows it), and she's holding my hand while Peeta defends Katniss.  
  
I pat her fingers without looking. The world has gone strange and echoey, and a phantom humming in my ears is going to drive me over the edge.  
  
On my other side, Effie is staring at the screen, pale-faced and serious. She hasn't gotten any sleep or freshened up, and her smudged make-up gives her a strange, lopsided, hallucinatory quality. I feel like I'm the one with tracker jacker stings.  
  
Cato gives Peeta another shove, then raises his sword above his head. "Hope she was worth it, Loverboy," he says, and brings it down in a brutal arc.  
  
Peeta moves forward, inside the arc, and jams his knife up against Cato's right wrist. This time, there's no playacting, no threatening with the flat of the blade. Cato is smart enough to guard his abdomen, but Peeta hasn't even bothered with that. He opens up a huge gash, and pushes Cato away from him.   
  
I think for a brief moment that it's over, that Cato will fall now and Peeta will run, but Cato is as stubborn and determined as he is vicious. He sways forward, but it's a feint. Instead of falling to the ground, he manages to swing his sword around until it's held in both hands again, and with the strength of his left arm, he cuts a brutal stroke into Peeta's thigh. Blood pours out of it, and Peeta falls to the ground.  
  
My screen doesn't go blank.  
  
Cato, reeling from the stings and the hemorrhaging from the cut in his arm, staggers away. I'm sure he thinks Peeta's dead. He makes it up the hill and onto the packed dirt around the Cornucopia, then passes out. Clove and Marvel, both fighting the effects of multiple stings, manage to bring him into camp.  
  
There's a cracking sound, and my entire console goes dead. My table has been shoved harshly out of the power feeds. Some of Effie's papers seesaw down to the floor.  
  
"I think," Brutus says coolly, "that we can safely say that the alliance is broken."  
  
"What a shame. It was going so well." I grab Effie's papers and hand them to her. "Get the table hooked up, sweetheart. Back in our regular spot."  
  
Effie wheels the table away.  
  
Cashmere comes back from the booths, looking at me with flat hate. "Go away, Haymitch."  
  
I start to argue, to remind her of how many of my kids have been killed by tactics like this from the Careers, but I stop. Glimmer was her tribute, and she's just gotten off the phone with her parents… who probably had to watch Katniss break her fingers to steal the bow.  
  
It may not be rational, and she may well know that Glimmer would have done the same or worse, but rational won't be on the table for a while.  
  
I back away without saying anything. Brutus watches me until I reach my regular spot, then goes back to his table and starts arranging for medicine.  
  
On the main screen, Peeta is struggling to sit up while Claudius -- or his morning replacement; I can't tell which from the voice, and don't care -- talks about how quickly he's likely to bleed out from a slash to the femoral artery.  
  
But he doesn't bleed out quickly.  
  
In fact, he manages to sit up and take off his jacket, which he wraps tightly around the wound. It turns darker quickly… but not _that_ quickly.  
  
The wound isn't mortal, at least not directly.  
  
He crawls to the tree Katniss hid in last night and pulls himself up against it. He tries to take a step, but lurches into a fall. If anyone finds him now, it won't matter that Cato didn't kill him.  
  
He pulls himself back to the tree and grabs at the branch Katniss cut away. It's bigger than it looked when she was cutting it. The broken tracker jacker nest is still in the fork of it, looking empty and harmless, like a wadded up newspaper. Beyond the nest, there's another fork in the branch, and he grabs hold of it and breaks it off. It's too short to be a really useful walking stick, but he uses it anyway, digging it into the ground and pulling himself along, away from the clearing, down the hill. He falls a few times and rolls, letting out a dangerous yelp at one point, but no one comes for him. He doesn't lose consciousness. He keeps moving.  
  
As soon as he's well away, the hovercraft collects Glimmer.  
  
There's a soft click as Seeder disconnects her half of the District Eleven table from Chaff's and joins it to mine.   
  
I look at her blankly.  
  
She turns her screen. "See?" she says.  
  
Rue, who apparently didn't stray far from the clearing when Katniss signaled her to leave, lets herself down silently from a tree and descends into the hollow where Katniss is passed out among the daylilies. She crouches down and tentatively shakes Katniss's shoulder.  
  
Katniss groans in her sleep.  
  
"We have to get you out of here. Out of the way."  
  
Katniss mutters something that might include the word "Prim."  
  
Rue smiles. "No, I'm not," she says. "But I'll get you safe, same as you did for her. I'm the big sister here now."  
  
She tries to take the bow and arrows, but Katniss grabs at them instinctively, so she quite wisely changes her mind, and sets about the business of making some kind of sled. There aren't many people so small that they can't carry Katniss Everdeen without a tool, but her new ally is one of them.  
  
"You okay with this?" I ask Seeder. "I mean, you said… and Katniss did just…"  
  
"…do exactly what Rue suggested, while keeping her out of the line of fire?" Seeder shakes her head. "What choice did she have?"  
  
I can't think of one.  
  
While Rue goes about finding a way to move Katniss, I turn my attention back to Peeta. He's found his way down to the stream. It's the first place anyone is going to look for him. They were there only hours ago.  
  
Then again, by the looks of him, I'm not sure he'll make it until they recover from their injuries.  
  
The jacket bound around his leg is completely wet with his blood now, and his face is pale and dazed under the mud. He manages to limp across the stream, but he leaves a long smear of blood on a rock as he tries to catch his balance. It may as well be a sign.  
  
He rests there, breathing in sharp, shallow gasps, looking around wildly. The screen splits, and Peeta is relegated to the lower left corner while Claudius's morning replacement chats with a hastily assembled panel to talk about what he'll have to do if he's going to survive. None of them seem terribly hopeful, but one suggests that if he can find a way to get constant pressure on the wound, avoid moving a lot, and stay away from the Careers, he has a slight chance.  
  
"Helpful," Seeder says. "Should he also make sure that he drinks water and breathes air?"  
  
"We can't even afford water," Effie says. "Haymitch, what do you need me to do?"  
  
"First, we hope that the water in the arena doesn't have too many little bugs in it. That's all he's got."  
  
"I thought -- " Seeder begins.  
  
I shake my head. "It all went to Katniss's medicine last night. I thought there might be time before I needed anything else. Sorry."  
  
"I don't have much for Rue, or I'd see about anti-venom…"  
  
"It's okay." I look at Effie. "Set up meetings. They both need help."  
  
"Everyone wants to help _both_ of them."  
  
"Yeah? Good. Work that as hard as you can. Keep the story going. Put it in the general fund."  
  
Effie picks up the phone and starts making calls.  
  
"Are you going to try and keep the romance story going?" Seeder asks. "Do you really think you can get it back after that?"  
  
"Peeta already got it back. He fought a killer to save her after the wasps came. He's not giving up. They won't, either."  
  
Seeder considers this very carefully, then casually changes the subject. "Interesting, isn't it?" She says. "We're down to ten, and six of them are full district compliments."  
  
I start to mentally set this aside (it's not entirely in the realm of the story) but something stops me before it disappears. Six of ten are district partners. Peeta and Katniss. Rue and Thresh. Clove and Cato.  
  
I can work with that. If Peeta can survive, I can work with it.  
  
He spots something across the stream and lurches over. I can't really see what he's looking at -- a little shelf of rock that overhangs the stream. There's a tight spot under it, and he packs one end of it with soft mud. This takes him a long time, and he seems to forget what he's doing once or twice. I can't figure it out in the first place. When he's got a loose slurry of mud there, he makes a much larger pile of it. He begins to smear it over his clothes, almost haphazardly.   
  
A breeze hits him. It can't be much of a breeze -- the trees barely respond to it -- but he shudders violently. Frantically, he grabs at the jacket tied around his leg and pulls it off. The leg starts to bleed, but not to gush. He puts the jacket on, then scoops up a handful of leaves and presses it against the wound, shoving it under the pants-leg to apply pressure. I don't think this is the best solution. He'll need something stronger. But if he's getting chills in midday, by night (if he makes it), he'll need his jacket as well, and he's mentally present enough to realize that, which I decide to interpret as a hopeful sign.  
  
He goes back to the mud smearing, covering his face and arms, dotting it here and there with darker earth and grabbing more leaves to stick into it. He checks his reflection in the water, though it's running fast enough that I doubt he can see much.  
  
All he looks like is a very muddy boy.  
  
He smears more filth into his hair, then lowers himself down to the ground beside the overhanging rock. He plunges his feet into the loose mud at the end. He gasps with pain as his wound brushes the rock, then he rolls underneath, pulling along the excess mud and packing it around himself.  
  
He disappears.  
  
I blink.  
  
I can see him because I'm looking for him, but even I have to actively search. There are finger marks in the mud near his hiding place, but the water moves quickly, and I realize that he very carefully made them along its path. They'll be worn away soon. He can reach out and get a handful of water. His leg is pressure packed under the rock with mud and leaves.  
  
Everything he needs to do to have a chance, he's done.  
  
It's not a guarantee, and I don't want to think about what's getting into his wound, but he's managed, with nothing but mud, to save himself, at least for the moment. Maybe long enough for me to do him some good. He won't like it if I divert resources to him instead of to Katniss, but if I can make my crazy idea work, if I can adopt just enough Donnerism to make it happen… maybe he wouldn't argue with me trying to help them both.  
  
Seeder helps me set up my handheld monitor, since I haven't had much reason to keep up with the changing technology of the thing. It splits the screen for me, so I can watch both kids. I take it with me for meetings with sponsors over the next two days.  
  
Some of these are entirely sponsor meetings. There are people all over the Capitol enthralled with the story, and with both of the kids currently knocked out, they're happy to keep themselves stimulated by meeting with me. They ask a lot of questions about how the kids get along in District Twelve. I honestly tell them that I don't know, but imply heavily that there may be a long-hidden secret there, and I'd sure like to know what it is. They would, too, they assure me.  
  
The money starts coming in again. A young singer named Julian Day comes with a small army as an entourage. It's off-putting at first, but he seems decent enough. He gives me a good pledge, and tells me that he's writing a song for Katniss and Peeta, if it's all right with me for him to perform it. I assure him that it's more than all right, and promise myself to grin and compliment him, no matter how horrible it ends up being.   
  
Tryphaena Buttery, one of the Daughters who hasn't sponsored for a few years, gives me a solid sum, and tells me that Peeta is simply the most wonderful boy she has ever seen, and she hopes boys everywhere will want to be like him instead of like that horrid boy from Two. After she leaves, I meet with a young couple who have styled themselves after Katniss and Peeta and want to donate all they can. Mimi Meadowbrook's old co-star, Valerian Vale, comes through with a mindboggling sum for a guy whose claim to fame is overacting in a long-running soap-opera. ("I don't waste my money," he tells me. "I take good care of it… and I'm not giving it lightly.") There are doctors and artists and politicians. I can't meet with them all personally, but the fund continues to grow.  
  
I meet briefly with Finnick at dinner. He is definitely not holding a grudge about Char. I tell him what I need. He is on television that evening, talking about the great romance playing out in the arena. I don't want his sponsors -- neither of the kids needs Finnick's kind of attention -- but he has a huge fan base outside of his enforced extracurricular activities. They don't have money for me, but he succeeds in spreading a kind of fever in the Capitol. My kids had fans before, but the narrative is really starting to emerge. It began when Peeta turned to face Cato, rather than letting him run after Katniss. This is no longer just a romance. This is an epic tale of nobility and sacrifice, and the fair maiden must, at all costs, be made worthy of it. As Katniss sleeps, she becomes a legend. Stories about her beauty and goodness rise up in man-on-the-street interviews, some based loosely on her sacrifice for Prim, some constructed from whole cloth.  
  
Through this, Katniss sleeps. Rue carefully gives her water and treats her stings with chewed up leaves. I want to help, but I have a feeling that anything I'm going to need from here on in is going to take everything I'm managing to scrape together.  
  
Peeta becomes feverish and ill, and doctors continue to almost gleefully predict his demise. Gloss and Brutus send medication to the remaining Careers. It doesn't work as well as the leaves Rue has been using, at least on the swellings, which amuses Seeder and Chaff greatly. When they're up and about at last, they're completely convinced that Peeta died while they were out of it, until the first night's pictures go up and they only see Char and Glimmer.  
  
The day after the wasp attack, they head down the hill. By luck, they don't turn toward Katniss and Rue, but they're standing within five feet of Peeta in the stream. They see the blood smear, but deduce that he's long-since moved on, since there's no other sign of him.  
  
I continue to meet with people. Other than the donors, I meet with Cinna, whose popularity has been soaring since the parade. He and Portia go on television to keep pitching the star-crossed lovers story.   
  
I talk to Cecelia at lunch. She has been happily married for a few years now, and has become a different sort of romantic symbol. She explicitly compares Peeta to her dear husband, viciously planting the idea of a happily-ever-after ending that the audience will soon start to demand.  
  
Late in the afternoon, I meet with more sponsors. I see Plutarch watching me from an upper window. I don't have time to talk to him now. I'll have more than enough work for him later.  
  
I meet with Caesar over dinner. He's very excited about the story. He adores Peeta, and is very curious about Katniss. He's technically an executive producer for the Games. I ask him what would happen if people were to start demanding a happy ending.  
  
He smiles. "Well, you know how the Games work, Haymitch," he says.  
  
"I do. But think how interesting an angle that would be. Not just for me, either. District Eleven and District Two both have pairs as well."  
  
Caesar doesn't pretend to believe the cynical tone. "It's interesting," he says. "And I'll instruct them to follow up on the district partner angle. But be careful, Haymitch. Don't give anyone the impression that you're _trying_ to get the Capitol audience to change the rules."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"No, of course not."  
  
He goes back to the studio to bring up the interesting curiosity about all the district pairs.  
  
I take a car out to the offices of the Daughters of the Founding.  
  
Aquila Grant meets me in the garden and offers me a nice iced tea. I take it.  
  
We don't go inside.  
  
"Have I disappointed you?" I ask.  
  
"No. You've pleasantly surprised me, Mr. Abernathy. I imagine it isn't easy, not drinking."  
  
"It's not. But right now, I'm too busy."  
  
"You aren't here for money."  
  
"No." I look around.  
  
"The gardens aren't bugged. That's why we're having a pleasant stroll." She smiles and laughs brightly at nothing, then says, "What is it you _do_ need?"  
  
"I need the audience to rebel," I tell her flatly.  
  
"I had a feeling it was something like that. And you think we can help you somehow?"  
  
"If it came from somewhere unobtrusive first, somewhere quiet and dignified... And very traditional."  
  
"I see." She smiles. "Well, they didn't overestimate your intelligence, did they? You're a sly creature, Haymitch Abernathy. I appreciate that in a person."  
  
"Will you help?"  
  
"I'll consider it," she says.  
  
I go back to the Viewing Center. Effie and Seeder are watching Rue gather up roots and berries. Peeta is mumbling in his delirium.  
  
Katniss sleeps on.


	15. Chapter 15

By the second evening, the Gamemakers have started feeding out medical information from Katniss and Peeta's trackers. They always have access, but they rarely give it to the rest of us, let alone the audience, but interest in them is high, and, with both of them unconscious, there's not much else for them to report on.  
  
Katniss is sleeping off the tracker jacker venom. She's in a relatively stable stage five sleep, which they explain as the final stage of sleep, when dreams are most likely to occur. Apparently, it's a point where the brain is as active as in waking life, but the body is essentially paralyzed. She's been through a few full sleep cycles, and they expect her to wake up at any moment. She has no lasting damage from the stings, though they're still a bit inflamed. (Rue has stopped applying the leaves, since Katniss has shown a few signs of being ready to come around, and Rue may be star-struck, but she's not stupid.) There is much speculation on the subject of what she's dreaming about. ("I know what _I'd_ be dreaming about," a pretty girl on the street sighs. She is wearing a shirt with Peeta's picture on it.)  
  
In other words, with Katniss, all we need is time and luck. As long as the Careers don't find her, she should wake up rested and more or less well. Since the Careers are still pretty off-kilter, and have been hunting the empty woods far north of Katniss's location, it's not too much to ask.  
  
Peeta is a different story. They're careful with this information, not leaking nearly as much, as his fans are devoted to him and would be upset with much of what they could say, so most doesn't make the broadcast, but because they've chosen to work the angle at all, I have the statistics on my dedicated screen.  
  
His wound has stopped bleeding, but much of that damage was done within fifteen minutes of the injury. He's anemic and in hypovolemic shock. His heart rate is up and his blood pressure is down. He's sometimes breathing normally, but other times seems to pant.  
  
That would eventually resolve itself -- the human body is remarkably resilient, and he's already replacing the blood -- but the wound has become badly infected, given that all he had to pack it with was mud and rotting leaves. There's a list of bacteria that have been detected, and other protozoa that lived in the leaves. There's also a very nasty yeast colony. I'm glad the Gamemakers are too ignorant about baking to start making jokes about this. Nothing viral so far, but the infection is running rampant, and will soon turn to blood poisoning.  
  
If the wound isn't treated soon, it will kill him.  
  
Most of the information released to the public is shown late the second night, with little more than a quick scroll of scientific names of the infecting agents and a comment that Peeta's certainly a tough boy to still be fighting. Then they go back to Katniss and the potential content of her dreams.  
  
The telephone rings about five minutes before midnight. Effie picks it up.  
  
"Hi! So glad you called the sponsor line for…" She stops. "Mr. Mellark. Hello. I… Of course, yes." She looks up at me.  
  
"Danny?" I ask, unnecessarily.  
  
She nods.  
  
I take the phone and switch on the viewscreen. Danny will not care that I look like hell. He doesn't look any better. I look at the scenery behind him, expecting to see the mayor's house, but it looks like the inn. His oldest boy just married the innkeeper's daughter, I think. Maybe they're all watching there. They have to have a phone for reservations.  
  
"How are you holding up?" I ask him.  
  
"Threvogar-Fytronomylin," he says staring at a piece of paper in his hand.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's medicine," he tells me. "Primrose has been reading the Capitol medical journals. I know they're all about pretending the Capitol can do anything medically -- bragging that they can fix things that kill us -- but she found an article about infected wounds. Threvogar-Fytronomylin, she said. She said it's given to people who get injured while they're hiking or something, and they have bad infections. It kills any" -- he looks at the paper again -- "invasive micro-fauna and accelerates regrowth of tissue." He looks at me, empty-eyed. "Haymitch, that's what he needs. I will do anything to get it to him."  
  
I look at the ointment Katniss used. The name of it on the list is Fytro, but the fine print calls it _Siktikonis-Fytronomylin._ I'm guessing Fytro is the ingredient for rapid cell growth.  
  
"It's not on my list," I say. "I can look into it, but Danny, things that aren't on the list… they're exorbitant."  
  
"I'll sell the bakery."  
  
"Don't do that."  
  
"Why not? He's my son."  
  
I look down. "Because what you could get for that bakery wouldn't make a dent in some of the things that _are_ on the list, Danny. I'm sorry, but it's true. Don't throw your livelihood away for nothing."  
  
"I have to do _something_."  
  
"I know. But not that. It won't help."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I don't know. I'm doing everything I can to get sponsors here. You need to go home and get some sleep --"  
  
"I'm not going back there. I'm not living there. I just go in to work in the morning. I'm staying with Jonadab."  
  
I sigh. "Any other time, I'd be doing cartwheels. But they're enjoying the love story right now. If Peeta makes it to the final eight -- and he has a good chance -- then people aren't going to want to see his parents fighting." I can't quite look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Danny. I know it's a terrible thing to ask --"  
  
"No. I said I'd do anything. I'll do this. So will Mir."  
  
"Okay. Good." I think about it, then something he said tosses up a flare. "Did you say _Primrose_ found it?"  
  
"Yeah. She's been a rock."  
  
"Then you and Ruth and Primrose have been spending time together?"  
  
"It's mostly Prim. She's researching everything. She comes to see me every day to tell me what she's learning. She's a good kid. I wish she _were_ …" He stops, apparently realizing that this is hardly a secure line. "I'm glad she's here. I'm glad she's who she is."  
  
"I need a united front back home."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If the reporters come back, you and Ruth and Mir are all old school friends. Glen, too, if you can work him into the conversation."  
  
"Ruth and Mir. Friends."  
  
"Okay, you and Ruth are friends. Mir can be as jealous as she wants, but in a friendly way. I need her to act. Ruth might be a hopeless case there, but you can carry it."  
  
"But they can't be united…"  
  
"Danny. Please."  
  
He frowns, then seems to read something in my face. "Okay. And you know… Ruth and I _were_ friends. Maybe it's time to remember that."  
  
There's nothing more to say. We hang up.  
  
Effie puts the phone back. "How are _you_ holding up?" she asks me.  
  
I shrug. "You?"  
  
"My therapist doesn't approve of the hours I've been here this year."  
  
"Yeah? He doesn't know that you're the best escort in the business for a reason."  
  
"All the things that you think of as me being a good escort, they're… symptoms." She smiles. "Then again, the things that make you a good mentor make you crazy, too."  
  
"Has it occurred to you that we might both be perfectly all right?"  
  
"Have you seen yourself when you're really in your cups? You're not all right."  
  
Given the multiple ways and times I've thought about killing myself, I guess I don't have an argument, at least not one that she'd accept. I tell her to go get some sleep. She gets about four hours, then sends me off. I manage almost five. It's just past nine when a runner comes to tell me that Katniss has woken up.  
  
"Is she all right?" I ask.  
  
The runner, a boy of about fourteen, says, "She's hunting, so I guess so. Miss Trinket wants you to wash up, in case there are cameras now that Katniss is awake."  
  
"Thanks." I hand him some money and turn to go to the showers.  
  
The boy stays there, shuffling his feet.  
  
"Did you need something else?"  
  
He bites his lip. "My girlfriend says she hopes that Katniss wins. She says she's the very best, and…" He looks up earnestly. "We want her to have the best."  
  
"Thank you," I tell him.  
  
He goes away.  
  
I go to the showers that are off to the side in the lounge and blast myself with the harshest setting I can get. I have a few days of long sweats to get rid of. I wash my hair and shave. When I finish, I put on a robe and go out to the general grooming area. Effie has sent in a clean, decent suit. I put it on and go outside.  
  
It seems I'm not the only one who's getting cleaned up. Katniss has picked up and moved, and is down at the stream. She's stripped down to her underthings, and rinsed out her clothes. They're hanging on the bushes to dry. A small, dead rabbit sits beside her. As I sit down, she starts combing her hair with her fingers.  
  
I look at Seeder's screen, where Rue is frowning at the leafy hollow where she's been hiding Katniss. "They got separated?"  
  
"Rue was off foraging when Katniss woke up," she explains. "I doubt Katniss has any idea that someone's been looking out for her."  
  
"She's not in the same place."  
  
"She was hallucinating when she passed out. She probably didn't know _where_ she was."  
  
"How's Peeta?" I ask Effie.  
  
"No change," she says. "He reached out and got some water."  
  
"No change is good for now. Any change is likely to be for the worse. I need to check on a medication."  
  
"The one Dannel Mellark mentioned? I already did. The price the Gamemakers gave me…" She sighs. "It's five times what the ointment cost, and that's _today_. The money's coming in, but nothing even close to that. On the plus side, there's a pretty steady stream coming from the sponsor booth in Twelve. I've never seen so many people trying to help."  
  
I look at the number. It hasn't amounted to a slice of bread yet, but it's everything people can afford. I have to get them through. These people are going to need Parcel Day next year.  
  
Effie has got me on talk shows during the morning and early afternoon. I have five minutes of the official broadcast time, and a full segment with the morning news. I also visit a children's show, where a dancing puppet asks me about the meaning of true love, and, of all things, a home improvement show, where the host is taking "inspiration" from the brave tributes of District Twelve to remodel his den. The only real influence I can see is that he's camouflaged an ottoman so that it seems to disappear beneath the pool table.  
  
I go along with it. It's a call-in show, and there are a fair number of viewers who want to wish the kids well. I mention that Peeta needs expensive medicine.  
  
When I get back, the small donations are starting to build up. Effie has been consistently busy. So has Katniss. She's re-braided her hair, cleaned her weapons, and lit a small fire. She seems to be careful about the smoke. She's cooking the rabbit and some kind of bird that she's shot. I've been back for about twenty minutes when Seeder nudges me. Rue has found her way here, and is watching Katniss from around a tree trunk.  
  
"You know," Katniss says, "they're not the only ones who can form alliances."  
  
Rue peeks around the trunk. "You want me for an ally?"  
  
"Why not?" Katniss gives her a friendly, perfectly genuine smile. "You saved me with those tracker jackers. You're smart enough to still be alive. And I can't seem to shake you anyway. You hungry?"  
  
And that's it.  
  
There's no dramatic confrontation. Rue doesn't even mention that she's been taking care of Katniss. She just comes out and sits down, and they talk. Rue treats her stings again (as far as Katniss knows, it's the first time, and she's visibly grateful), and Katniss shares her ointment to treat a little burn on Rue's arm. ("You have good sponsors," Rue says wistfully.) They finally shake hands and agree to an alliance. I can see Brutus smirking across the room -- Katniss has allied with the only tribute left in the field who's smaller and weaker than she is.  
  
Then again, she's allied with the one who will make sponsors think of her original act of bravery, the one they loved her for at first: her sacrifice for Prim. Katniss falls easily into the role of big sister now that she's awake, sharing out the meal and giving Rue generous portions of the bird, which Rue identifies as a "groosling."   
  
"I've never had a whole leg to myself before," she confides.  
  
"Take the other," Katniss says.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Take whatever you want. Now that I've got a bow and arrows, I can get more. Plus, I've got snares. I can show you how to set them up." Katniss notices that Rue is still not eating the other groosling leg. "Oh, take it! It'll only keep a few days, anyway, and we've got the whole bird, plus the rabbit."  
  
Rue grins and eats.  
  
The main coverage cuts away from them when they start comparing notes about life in their districts. Rue knows what the night vision goggles are, since they use them in the orchard. Apparently, a boy was killed for stealing a pair. They're saying very little about anything controversial (even in the Capitol, they know that District life is harsh).   
  
None of this is on the main broadcast, anyway. The Careers are hunting, Peeta is mumbling in his delirium, Finch and Thresh are foraging, and Spicer Daby is exploring his island. He's found a steep cliff, and is trying to find a way around it. There are Capitol gamblers to interview, and the ever-present Capitol party to cover. Finnick is in attendance at a party in the pleasure district, and takes the opportunity to talk up the great romance. His fan club is actively raising funds. They want to see the great reunion.  
  
When mandatory viewing begins, Katniss and Rue have carefully sorted out several days' worth of food, and are looking for a place to sleep. The recaps of the day show them together, and the audience is wild for it. It proves that Katniss is the worthy object of their affection. Seeder doesn't mind a bit -- donations are coming in for Rue as well.  
  
Since nothing of great import is going on, they move to features. There's a specialist about District Ten who talks about how well Spicer is doing, and a piece about a mutt Thresh killed. They show scenes of Katniss and Rue eating again, then, to my delight, go to the headquarters of the Daughters of the Founding. Aquila Grant has agreed to talk about why the Daughters are such staunch supporters of District Twelve, of all places.  
  
She has positioned herself in front of the huge portrait of Mother Laelia. Over her shoulder, just out of focus enough to look like just about anyone -- Katniss, for instance -- there is a slight female figure carrying a bow in one hand, with a game bird tied to her belt, and the gleaming spires of the Capitol in the background.  
  
Chaff leans over. "What, you forgot to give her a spare mockingjay pin?"  
  
"I didn't give her anything," I say.  
  
The announcer asks a few general questions about the history of the Daughters, then asks, "While the Daughters of the Founding as an organization largely remained silent during the first fifty years of the Games, since Haymitch Abernathy's victory, there's been a sustained and substantial connection with District Twelve. Why, of all districts, Twelve?"  
  
Aquila raises her eyebrow. "What an odd question. Why not Twelve? The people of Twelve are like us -- after the Catastrophes, they built their own world back up, creating something from nothing in the wilderness, just as we did here in the Capitol. They're strong, and they look after one another, as the Founders did. And their merchant class, the ancestors of that boy in the stream, they come from our very stock, wanderers who survived in the chaos until they found a home. Our soul and our blood… of course we support them."  
  
"Then it isn't because Haymitch Abernathy has manipulated the emotions of your members?"  
  
"Oh, good heavens, Haymitch couldn't emotionally manipulate a bee into making honey. Quite a few of us are fond of him, it's true -- but we aren't as gullible as you seem to think."  
  
The reporter backpedals furiously on his question, insisting that he meant no insult (which best be true, as I don't have time to kill him at the moment), then asks, "Which of the District Twelve tributes are you pulling for?"  
  
"Both of them," Aquila says calmly.  
  
"But --"  
  
"Oh, I know. The _rules_." She sighs. "It's a pity, really. They're both brave and good, and exactly what citizens of Panem should be. I'm quite fond of both of them. It's a shame we're such slaves to rules, don't you think?" She smiles, but doesn't push it any further. It's far enough. The notion of being slaves to something as mundane as rules will rankle a certain class of Capitolite, and she knows it.  
  
They cut back to the arena, where Rue and Katniss have settled into a tree for the night. After the anthem, Katniss asks how long she's been out, and grabs everyone's attention (including mine) by asking about Peeta. She claims the whole thing is an act that the two of them worked out with me, but it's such an obvious lie (she sounds like a nervous schoolgirl when she says it… and blushes) that studio coverage only mentions in passing that they'll look into why she's making up a story like that later on.  
  
They return to the subject of the night vision goggles, which the Careers apparently have two pairs of.  
  
"But they've got everything down by the lake," Rue says. "And they're so strong."  
  
"We're strong, too. Just in a different way." Katniss bites her lip, thinking.  
  
Rue thinks that Katniss is strong, but doesn't think she herself is, even if she can feed herself, since the Careers hardly need to worry about that, having all the food in their pile of supplies.  
  
"Say they didn't," Katniss muses. "Say the supplies were gone. How long would they last? I mean, it's the Hunger Games, right?"  
  
"But Katniss, they're not hungry."  
  
Katniss grins. "No, they're not. That's the problem. I think we're going to have to fix that, Rue."  
  
Rue's eyes light up at the idea of a plan, though they don't talk about it any further.  
  
Claudius's night show comes on right after mandatory viewing. There's a great deal of joking about Katniss's lie. A psychologist named Aurelius says she sounds like a twelve-year-old insisting that the little boy next door isn't her boyfriend and she doesn't like him _at all_. "I had a daughter myself," he says. "She drew hearts all over her yearbook around pictures of a particular boy, but if anyone asked, she said he was stupid and she only did that because someone dared her to."  
  
"What became of it?"  
  
"She married him. I think I became a grandfather last year."  
  
The studio audience laughs.  
  
Claudius joins them, then looks back at Aurelius. "And the notion that this was planned by Haymitch Abernathy?"  
  
Aurelius sobers a little bit at this. "I don't think it's plausible."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I've worked with a number of victors over the years, Claudius. A solid number of them are mentors. And while I've never particularly worked with Abernathy, I've heard a good deal about him. This isn't his style. He's known for following his tributes' leads, not for dictating to them."  
  
Claudius nods sagely, then smiles. "Well, I see you aren't entirely neutral in the Games this year!" He points at the lapel of Aurelius's jacket.  
  
Aurelius turns it out. He's wearing a replica of Katniss's pin. "Yeah," he says. "How does it look…?"  
  
As the late night coverage continues, I see more mockingjays, though none seem to be worn with knowledge of it as a rebel symbol.  
  
More importantly, Aquila's hint seems to be worming its way into the mass consciousness. One of the Fannicks actually comes out and says that it would be "romantic" to change the rules for Katniss and Peeta. A fan of Thresh's says that if it's fair for a romance to work, why not another kind of district team? District Two fans rather angrily insist that if people can wish for Katniss and Peeta both to live, then they should be able to hope for a District Two sweep.  
  
I sleep, and by the time I wake up for the early news, it's something of a burning question. It's not making it to the districts -- this is strictly on a Capitol broadcast -- but rather than asking whether or not it's possible to have a rule change, there's a heated debate about whether or not tributes who aren't in love should have just as much of a chance of getting out of the arena together, if there were such a change. This has devolved overnight into Katniss and Peeta's fans and Cato and Clove's fans throwing bottles at each other across the street. Thresh and Rue's fans are on both sides.  
  
Just after sunrise, Spicer Daby is trying to catch a small rabbit for breakfast. He loses his balance on his bad leg near the top of the cliff he found, and crashes down the steep slope.  
  
He's lucky enough to die instantly, rather than lying there for the mutts. Earl goes to the booths to place the call.  
  
The cannon wakes Katniss.  
  
Rue has been up for a little while, scavenging for eggs. She has a pair of them in her hands while they try to figure out who's left in the pack for it to have been. They forget about Finch, which could be a costly mistake (she's been very clever so far, scavenging from the other tributes, and she could well be a contender), and speculate on how the most recent tribute died. Of course, there's no way for them to know the latter, and probably never will be. The main camera is on a delay after their conversation yesterday, and cuts away before Katniss makes a snide comment about a death "holding the crowd" and the Gamemakers trying to stir things up.  
  
It's true, of course, but she has to stop saying things like that. It won't help her.  
  
The conversation comes around again to the Careers' stockpile of supplies. Katniss wants to attack it and force them to live off the arena like everyone else. _This_ makes the coverage. There's plenty of discontent with viewers every year about the unfairness of the Career strategy. People will like to see the odds evened up. I'm not sure, myself. I wish they'd go find Peeta, or at least discuss the subject.  
  
They spend the morning hunting and foraging, while Rue reports on things she's seen in her various spying trips to the Career camp. She's pretty observant. Finally, Katniss seems to decide she has enough information, and while they dig for roots, she asks, casually, what the most important thing in the world is to Rue.  
  
"Music," Rue answers.  
  
Katniss looks vaguely surprised. "Music? You have a lot of time for that?"  
  
"We sing at home. At work, too. That's why I love your pin."  
  
A camera comes in at an odd angle on Katniss's pin, and they talk about mockingjays -- about how Rue uses their ability to mimic her song to tell everyone to knock off for the night in District Eleven. Katniss offers to let her wear the pin (I can almost hear the Capitol sighing in ecstasy at the cuteness of it), but Rue prefers to see it on Katniss.   
  
"That's how I decided I could trust you," she explains, and pulls out a flimsy looking district token. "Besides, I have this. It's a good luck charm."  
  
"Her little sisters made it for her," Seeder explains. "The charm… it's a clip her mother uses it to hold her scarf closed in the fields."  
  
I nod, and decide it's a good token.  
  
The girls work out something like a plan to first distract the Careers from their camp, then attack the food. It involves setting campfires at various points in the woods. They set two of them together. Rue will set the third on her own.   
  
Rue teaches Katniss how to signal the mockingjays, so they can tell each other that they're all right. Katniss seems hesitant to try it. I doubt she admits why to herself. Glen Everdeen used to sing to the mockingjays. They always answered him. I wonder if she's worried that they'll reject her.  
  
"Okay, then," Katniss says. "If all goes according to plan, I'll see you for dinner."  
  
She starts to leave, but Rue grabs onto her and hugs her tightly. Katniss seems surprised and pleased by it.  
  
"You be careful," Rue says.  
  
"You, too."  
  
They let go of each other and smile faintly, then Katniss takes a deep breath and heads for the stream.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Viewing Center, Haymitch watches Katniss and Rue's plan come to fruition.

It's occurred to me more than once over the years that the vast majority of the Hunger Games every year is waiting and watching. It's as true in the arena as it is in the Viewing Center. Tonight, the mandatory viewing broadcast will distill all of this into some kind of exciting narrative, whether Katniss and Rue's plan works or not. Live, I watch Katniss walking through the woods for an hour. That will be entirely condensed to a brief shot of her moving through the trees, probably with someone talking over it. If every moment of the Games became mandatory viewing, the audience would be too bored to let them continue.  
  
That will never happen. The screen that shows the main Capitol broadcast is, at the moment, showing a sketch comedy show. It's officially "Games programming," but as far as I can tell, the only nod to the Games is that Jo Mason is their guest star. I think it aired live last night. At the moment, Jo is playing a flighty Capitol designer who's trying to make elbows the new sexy reveal. She's having fun. I'm pretty sure she's also having one of the regular cast members, but I try very hard not to keep up with that. Jo is not Finnick. She has no one for Snow to hold over her head, and she likes to flaunt that by dating -- in a loose sense of the word -- anyone she happens to feel like that week.  
  
Katniss walks through the woods a little more. She reaches the stream, and eventually gets to the spot where she took her bath yesterday, and decides to slap more mud onto her bright orange backpack. It's a noble effort, but I don't think even Peeta could make that color disappear. She goes downhill along the stream for a while, then spots the leaves Rue used to treat her stings, and realizes that she's on the right path. She actually comes across the broken open tracker jacker nest and pauses there for a while. I guess she could be castigating herself over Glimmer and Char, but I don't feel like she is. Finally, she tightens her grip on the bow and moves on to the little copse that Rue has used to spy on the Career camp from time to time. She settles in for more waiting.  
  
Peeta, meanwhile, is more active than he's been for a couple of days. He manages to take a handful of leaves, soak them in water, and have a long drink before falling asleep again.  
  
I look over at Seeder's screen. Rue has finished setting up the third decoy fire, and is making her way back to the first one to start lighting them. It occurs to me that I probably could have made their lives easier by sending them watches to synchronize, but I guess they're doing all right. The little bit of money I could have spent on them can maybe go toward medicine for Peeta.  
  
I can see Chaff's screen pretty easily. Thresh doesn't seem bothered by the Games. He's secured a territory, and done some damage to other tributes who try to invade it, but for the most part, he's having a nice camping trip. He knows plants well and he sets very good traps. He's just waiting at his little shelter, eating, occasionally getting up and exercising, and, apparently, thinking. I want to send him a book to pass the time.  
  
I can't see Finch, from Five, at the moment, but she's also staying out of the fights. Unfortunately, she seems to be overcautious about the plants in the arena. She seems to know what to steer clear of (there are bushes heavily laden with nightlock berries, which she avoids like the plague), but she also avoids anything she doesn't know on sight, or that she hasn't seen someone else eating. She's still dependent on stealing from the Career camp, which has been made more difficult as they've recovered from their stings. She even managed to steal from Thresh once. But she only takes tiny amounts that won't be missed, and she's getting thinner by the day.  
  
In the Career camp, which Katniss is watching from the copse, the boys and Clove are discussing their plans. They're still uncomfortable from their stings, since the Capitol medicine treated the effects of the primary toxin, but not the giant swellings. They'd have done better with Rue's leaves. I can only see them through Katniss's camera, so it's hard to tell what, exactly, they're talking about… though I've been at this long enough that I think it's reasonable to guess that revenge is on their minds.  
  
Katniss stares at their pile of food. Since Peeta left and the mines were installed, they've made a rough circle of less valuable items, to mark the boundary of the minefield. At Onnisey's insistence, they've also made a kind of shelter over the whole thing with a large piece of heavy netting. (His reasoning, which I consider highly sound, is that it's not going to be helpful if the Gamemakers send a hailstorm and set off the mines that way.) Katniss is trying to figure it out -- luckily, she's smart enough to realize it's a trap.  
  
Rue lights the first decoy fire.  
  
It takes the Careers less than five minutes to notice the smoke.   
  
I can tell on Katniss's screen that the Careers are fighting about something, but it's not until the Gamemakers notice and put it on the main screen that I can tell for sure. Apparently, Cato is insisting that Onnisey come along on the hunt, since they're short three people after the tracker jacker attack and Peeta's defection. He still seems to think that Peeta is going to die any minute, despite not having checked on his condition.  
  
They leave.  
  
Katniss continues to behave intelligently, waiting until they're definitely gone, staring at the pyramid and trying to figure it out. She might or might not get to it on her own, but she has an extraordinary stroke of luck: She's not the only one watching the Career camp.  
  
Finch comes out of the shadows before Katniss moves and approaches the pyramid carefully. She keeps her eyes to the ground and moves gracefully around the outer mines, just as Onnisey showed her. She almost falls once and gives a little shriek.  
  
Katniss frowns and lowers her bow, continuing to watch as Finch collects up a few supplies here and there, filling her bag without making it noticeable. She looks around, then leaves.  
  
The main coverage switches to the camera on Katniss, so I'm seeing her double when she whispers, "It's mined."  
  
I don't know if she played it to the camera deliberately or not. I'm inclined to think not -- she was alone long enough that she's comfortable talking to herself -- but it's a good camera moment anyway, making her seem clever and perceptive. The clip of her whisper will play tonight, I'm quite sure, as they build up to telling whatever story is building.  
  
She slowly comes out of hiding as Rue sets the second fire, though I doubt she notices this. She passes the plates where the tributes came up from the tunnels. They look innocuous now. She can see perfectly well where the dirt was disturbed when the mines were dug up.  
  
She bites her lip and stares at the pile.  
  
Her eyes narrow.  
  
I can't tell what she's looking at. My inclination would be to find a way to knock over something on top and destabilize the whole thing, but I can't see how she'll do it with only a bow.  
  
She pulls three arrows from her quiver and nocks one of them. It's the first time I'll really see her make a shot. I missed both of her early hunting kills.  
  
She takes aim at a bag of apples and fires.  
  
My first thought is, _she missed_ , but I hear Gloss gasp and look up. He never got a chance to use a bow and arrows in his Games, but it's a talent he's developed for the cameras since, and he's watching Katniss with frank admiration.  
  
The main screen gives a close-up of the bag, which now has a neat tear near the bottom.  
  
The second arrow opens another tear, creating a flap of fabric. An apple pokes out tantalizingly.  
  
"She'll never make that," Gloss says, loud enough for me to hear, but I don't think with any intention of it being shared.  
  
Katniss lets the third arrow fly. It catches the flap of fabric and tears it away from the bag in a steady strip.  
  
The bottom of the bag falls out, and apples come cascading down.  
  
The explosion takes out the close-up camera, and the Gamemakers switch to an aerial view. The fire blooms out from the supply pile like one of Snow's roses, brilliant orange and red, with black leaves of smoke billowing out around it. Katniss, a tiny speck on the screen, is thrown backward like a bit of debris.  
  
Even in the Viewing Center, the sound is almost unbearably loud.  
  
In the woods, Rue stops about halfway to the third fire and climbs a tree to see what's happened.  
  
The Careers know immediately.  
  
"Sounds like we had a thief," Clove says.  
  
Onnisey shakes his head. "That's not just one mine."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Cato demands. "How many? How many?" He grabs Onnisey by the lapels and shakes him. "How many mines was that?"  
  
"I don't know! I couldn't hear all of them once they started. It could be all of them, for all I know."  
  
"You better hope it's not."  
  
Cato starts pushing back through the woods.  
  
"We should find the partner," Clove says to the others.  
  
"Not now," Marvel says. "Later."  
  
"She could get away."  
  
"I have half the woods booby-trapped out here, with those rattle-traps from the old cans."  
  
Clove thinks about it, then nods. I guess Marvel must have done that while I was sleeping.   
  
The three of them bolt off after Cato.  
  
I look back at my screen.  
  
Katniss gets to her feet, but there's obviously something very wrong. I can't tell at first, because of the way the shadows are falling, but then she puts her hand to her ear. It comes away bloody. The commentators speculate that she's blown out her eardrums.  
  
She sways back and forth, staring at the blood on her hand, then pulls her hood up and starts to crawl away. She barely makes it back to the cover of Rue's copse when the Careers get back, and Cato loses his mind. I'm not sure how right in the head he was before, but when he sees the utter ruin of their supply stash, he starts screaming to the heavens, tearing at his hair and pounding the ground with his fists.  
  
He calms down enough to order them to check the remaining supplies. Onnisey throws rocks at the ground until it's clear that every one of the mines has gone up, then they start digging through the wreckage.  
  
Then Cato kills Onnisey.  
  
There's no warning, no change in his attitude before or after. He's ranting and raving, then he turns and snaps Onnisey's neck, then he goes back to raving. After a while, the others convince Cato to go to the far side of the lake, so the hovercraft can come.  
  
Katniss tries to move again, but she sways and slumps to the ground.  
  
I realize that we've reached the final eight, and both of the kids are still in there… though I'm not sure either will make it long enough for reporters to reach District Twelve.  
  
The phone starts to ring.  
  
In the next ten minutes, Effie fills up my entire afternoon with sponsor meetings. I'd rather be keeping an eye on Katniss and Peeta, but rationally, I can't do them any good in the Viewing Center. Peeta needs a medicine that's expensive even by Capitol standards and Katniss needs surgery on her eardrum. She's not going to get surgery in the arena, and there's nothing to do for her but watch and wait. If she gets through the night, she'll be down a sense, and she might not be able to feed herself as well.  
  
That means sponsors.  
  
So I go to meetings.  
  
The fight about whether or not two tributes from a district should be able to survive is in full swing, and Finnick is working the angle for me with everything he's got. I see him on large screens talking about the great romance. He's got Jo working as a foil -- not arguing against the notion of dual winners, but making fun of it as a romantic angle, getting the people on board who think the romance is silly. I hadn't thought about that.  
  
I meet with old women and their cats. I meet with gamblers. I meet with a deeply creepy old man who tells me that I used to be beautiful, and wants to know if all District Twelve men let themselves go so badly (I think of Peeta and opt not to take his money). I meet with a doll-maker who is creating a camouflage-it-yourself Peeta toy, and a Katniss doll with fully braidable hair.   
  
Effie sets up dinner with the owner of an art gallery, and sends a messenger to me with Peeta's sketchbook. I take out a few innocuous drawings (they do not need to see the confused, cold drawings of his mother, or his impressions of the fear he felt during training) and show them to her. She seems to forget that it's a sponsorship meeting and the artist is dying in the arena. She buys one for her personal collection. The money goes toward medicine.  
  
I have a very brief breather after dinner, and I look through the drawings. He must have been up nights doing them. He's lovingly drawn his brothers and his father. He drew me a few more times. The last sketch is of Katniss on the roof. She looks confused.  
  
I don't know enough about art to say whether or not they're as good as I think they are. They could be sentimental tripe, for all I know -- there are plenty of poems that other people like that make my head spin. But I like them. I put the sketchbook in my briefcase and move on to my next meeting, which is with a filmmaker who says that if I get Katniss through, it will be a _huge_ story, do I hear him, _huge_. A monster. He tosses the names of a few actresses at me and seems vaguely stunned that I don't know them. Apparently, they've already been calling him about the part.  
  
Mandatory viewing has already started during my last two meetings (a city councilwoman and, of all things, a former Peacekeeper who has an unlikely amount of money that he all but shoves down my throat), and I have to have my handheld on. They have to be watching as well, and that makes it hard to concentrate. The meetings for the day dry up.  
  
By the time I get back to the Viewing Center, Katniss is up and moving around a little better, though the way she's swatting at her left ear, I guess she's still at least partly deaf. She's wearing her night vision goggles, and she's washed her face to get rid of the blood. It occurs to me that she's spent more time washing in a few days than most of my tributes have in the whole course of the Games. Maysilee and I took advantage of daily rain showers, but neither of us was exactly a stickler about the hygiene. We were both pretty ripe a long time before the end. Maybe living with a healer has brought this about. Or maybe it was Glen. I never knew him as well as I knew Danny or Ruth, but I'm pretty sure I once heard him rant about coal dust getting into everything and making it look dirty.  
  
However she came by it, it's serving her well. She's getting wild-eyed, but the cameras still love her. She digs herself a hole, covers herself with leaves and pine needles, and goes to sleep. They do a cross cut to Peeta, who looks remarkably similar. He's muttering "Katniss" in his sleep, but there's no one nearby to hear.  
  
The Careers have gone back into the woods to hunt. They've set up a temporary camp in the woods not far from where Rue is hiding. She can't make it to the last fire, because they've set up trip wires that she can't see in the dark, and she's inside their circle.   
  
"At least she overheard them talking about it," Seeder says. "She can stay calm and quiet for a while longer."  
  
Cato has gone back to his mostly sane persona. He's needling Marvel about trying to kill by remote control with the net traps he's been setting, using the tattered remains of the netting they'd had over the supplies. Some was burned, but most burst off, tore, and blew away on the shockwave. Between these and the clattering scrap metal traps, Rue is forced into a rather small section of the woods. She's able to move among the trees a little bit, and even comes close to Katniss, but Katniss doesn't hear the call of the mockingjays, and Rue moves on as far as she can.  
  
There is nothing more to see. They move on to general coverage. The issue of the tribute "teams" makes the mandatory broadcast, though they don't talk about the fights in the streets of the Capitol. They just talk about how unusual it is that the final eight tributes only come from five districts -- two each from Two, Eleven, and Twelve. Five and One barely get a mention, much to the annoyance of Gloss and Faraday.   
  
They go back to the streets to talk to people who are carefully edited to avoid mention of the increasingly more common idea of letting a district pair win. District Two fans are looking forward to the annual visit by the media to Two, where they name all the victors they want interviewed. District Eleven fans have made up a dance for Thresh, based on his heavy-footed tread. There's a great deal of artwork showing Rue in the trees. For both of these districts, they find separate groups of fans for the separate tributes.  
  
District Twelve's fans are together. Some are in costume. Many are in camouflage. Women weep over the shots of Peeta calling Katniss's name. A teenage girl hopes that they'll at least find each other long enough for Katniss to get pregnant, so it could be just like they both survived. That disturbing bit is the closest we've come so far to mass broadcast of this growing idea. Claudius laughs and points out that the Capitol makes it impossible for girls to get pregnant during the Games. He doesn't mention how this is accomplished, as it would ruin too many people's fondest fantasies.  
  
Effie sighs. "Oh, Haymitch. What can we do for them?"  
  
"We're doing everything there is."  
  
"Did you get the notebook all right?" She bites her lip. "I hope it's all right, but I took the picture that Peeta drew of me. It's very well-done, but I look…" She reaches into her purse and pulls it out. In it, her wig is slightly askew, and she's rolling her eyes fondly at something at the dinner table. She looks like an indulgent big sister. "See?"  
  
"Yeah," I say. "I see."  
  
I send her to bed. About five hours later, I get some sleep myself. I dream about Effie with her wig askew, smiling and rolling her eyes. We are not at the dinner table.  
  
I get up in the morning at around the same time Katniss does, and I'm watching her watch Finch dance around the ruins of the supply stash when the reporters arrive in Twelve.  
  
This is not generally something that gets a good deal of coverage, but of course, it’s not very often that anyone gets a glimpse of us outside of the reaping.  
  
Danny and Mir are interviewed on a porch swing which Mir would never actually allow on her porch. It might encourage people to loiter at the bakery without buying anything. Danny might even have a place to talk to his friends.  
  
Nevertheless, they look as cozy as ordered. Mir's as good with the cameras as Peeta is, telling fabricated stories about their romance-filled home. Danny's fighting for his son's life, so he puts on a good show as well, playing a self-deprecating white knight who just thinks being a gentleman is a good thing. Peeta's brothers are on, bragging about how they trained him to be tough, and he can beat a little cut on the leg. Someone has gone and dragged in half the school's wrestling team. A girl who says she was his first date seems utterly thrilled to say that he spent the whole time talking about Katniss, and a girl identified as Delly Cartwright (filmed under a willow with so many shadows that she might well look like Lavinia, for all I can tell) talks about how Peeta would borrow her notebooks, and they'd come back with sketches of Katniss. She's not as good at this as Danny, and I can tell she's a little irritated to spend Peeta's interview time talking about Katniss… though of course, the coverage skews it as her being a little jealous. And who could blame her?  
  
For Katniss, they spend a lot of time with Prim, who talks up her sister _and_ makes a point of speaking well of Peeta. Ruth looks nervous and on edge, but she rallies and talks about Katniss's ear injury, of all things. Madge Undersee doesn't mention Maysilee's pin, but she does talk quite fiercely about how Katniss is a symbol of hope and strength. A boy from the Seam named Gale Hawthorne says that she can survive anything. They ask how he knows her. He stumbles over it, I'd guess because they hunt together -- he has a well-fed look for a boy with three siblings and a widowed mother. This gruffness is obviously considered something of a threat, because the interviewer abruptly jumps on the fact that he and Katniss look alike.  
  
They don't, at least not any more than Katniss and I look alike, but most of Panem has no idea how closed off the gene pool in District Twelve is, so when the reporter suggests that they might be cousins and Hawthorne, bewildered, shrugs and says he guesses that most of the Seam is somewhere, this becomes an immutable fact. By noon, Gale Hawthorne is a scion of the close-knit Everdeen family. They won't have seen this at home yet. I wonder what he'll make of it.  
  
Meanwhile, Katniss has made her way back to the camp she and Rue shared. She's been eating like crazy (a few brave souls on the street are making jokes about her appetite), and has clearly regained the hearing on the right side. Rue is nowhere to be found. She's still trapped in the circle the Careers made, which Marvel is patrolling regularly, but Katniss doesn't know this. At first, she's untroubled. She washes her hair and jacket, eats a fish, and climbs a tree, where she grooms herself more, and eats everything she has in her pack. I get a few joking calls from sponsors suggesting that I send her a full picnic basket. I get them to pledge what it would cost.  
  
She starts to get agitated as the day grows late and gets down from the tree. She goes to the site of the third fire, and realizes that it hasn't been touched, that Rue never made it there. Her eyes go wide -- I'm guessing she imagines something worse than being treed -- and she starts to work her way back along the trail to the second fire.  
  
This is cut in with shots of the district interviews. In Two, Clove's brothers sing the praises of her knife work. In One, Marvel's parents assure people that their son isn't the weakling Cato is trying to portray. In Five, a weeping teacher shows incomprehensible diagrams that Finch has made. In Eleven, they show Rue's coworkers in the orchard, singing to the mockingjays. It's one of the most staged shots I've ever seen, but it doesn't come off as corny, because just as they show it, Rue catches sight of Katniss's movement.  
  
She calls to the mockingjays, and they sing her song.  
  
Katniss looks up and starts moving faster. Finally, she sings.  
  
Her voice is clear and as lovely as Glen's ever was. The mockingjays pause, then pick up the song and carry it back to Rue.  
  
Rue smiles brightly and climbs down the tree.  
  
She hasn't eaten since yesterday. She didn't get much sleep. She's tired and frightened and maybe that's why she forgets to be careful.  
  
She moves backwards away from the tree, obviously meaning to follow the mockingjays toward Katniss.  
  
Instead, her foot trips one of Marvel's traps.  
  
A net falls from the trees, winding her inside of it, the way Finnick's victims were wound.  
  
She struggles against it and screams, "Katniss!"  
  
Katniss starts to run.  
  
But she's not the first to get there.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Rue's death, Haymitch steps up his effort to push for a double win.

Marvel, the boy from One, is only a fraction of a minute faster than Katniss. He's been setting these traps for a couple of days now, and I think he's almost convinced himself that they're some kind of exotic set dressing. The look on his face when he sees that one of them has worked certainly admits no possibility that there's a real twelve-year-old girl caught in a death trap. Instead, he's wearing the gleeful expression of an inventor whose machine has just worked exactly as it's supposed to. The expression doesn't change as he hurls his spear, or as it enters Rue's body. He just stands there, blinking, as if waiting for a pat on the back for a job well done.  
  
What he gets instead is Katniss.  
  
He hasn't even registered her presence when she fires an arrow into his throat. He touches it in wonder, then stupidly pulls it out. He bleeds out in seconds. From the corner of my eye, I see Gloss go to the booths.  
  
Beside me, Seeder's hands are curled into hooks against her face, her eyes wide and horrified. Chaff and I each take one of her hands, pulling them away, and hold them tightly as Katniss looks for more enemies to shoot.  
  
Finally, Katniss seems to realize that she and Rue are alone, and Rue is dying. She kneels down beside the fallen child.  
  
"You blew up the food?" Rue asks.  
  
"Every last bit."  
  
Rue nods solemnly. " _You have to win._ "  
  
"I'm going to," Katniss says. Her voice isn't cool, like it usually is, and her accent is stronger than I usually hear it. "Going to win for both of us now."  
  
"Don't go."  
  
"Course not. Staying right here." Katniss brushes Rue's hair back gently, like she's calming little Prim after a bad nightmare.  
  
"Sing," Rue says.  
  
Katniss blinks, taken aback, almost afraid. Other than the brief mockingjay tune, I wonder if she's sung since Glen died.  
  
But she does not deny Rue.  
  
She sings the Meadow Song, a lullaby that every child in District Twelve knows -- a simple, comforting song, meant to reassure a frightened child that there are safe places, even in the world we know. My father sang it to me (nowhere near as prettily as Katniss is singing), and I sang it to my brother from time to time, before he got too big to put up with it. It's a song that's sung within families, a song of love and belonging. That Katniss is singing it to a child from another district, sharing that primal bond…  
  
I doubt anyone at home will miss the significance (in fact, on the split screen, I can see several people in the square singing along, as if offering the same comfort to Eleven that Katniss is offering Rue). It may not have the same meaning in Eleven, but there's a feed on another screen and I can see them watching solemnly, quiet and serious, until Rue slips away. Katniss kisses her forehead.  
  
The woods are silent as the song ends, then the mockingjays pick it up, spreading it through the arena, carrying it to the audience. On some of the cameras covering the Capitol, I see people sit down on park benches and begin to weep.  
  
"I'll make the call," Chaff says quietly.  
  
Seeder nods, barely keeping herself from crying as he goes. I put my arms around her. She grabs onto me tightly, and the tears start to come. I don't say anything. There's nothing to be said.   
  
I am looking over her head toward the booths, watching for Chaff to come back, when she suddenly gasps and pulls away. "Haymitch…"  
  
I look at my screen.  
  
Katniss has begun to pull up white flowers, and she's carefully laying them around Rue's body, creating an angelic shroud, giving her funeral rites.  
  
In the past twenty-four years, I have seen a lot of death in the arena. I've seen tributes celebrate it, and I've seen them mourn it. I've seen them rage over it, as I did, and I've seen them wearily ignore it.  
  
I have never seen a tribute behaving as if she is not in the arena at all, but at the scene of the horrible death of a friend at home, giving love and respect to the dead.   
  
Memorializing her.  
  
Treating the death of a tribute not as a necessary part of the Games, or even as a casualty of war or an object of rage, but as the death of a child who was loved and valued.  
  
I remember her mother doing that, when we found a girl from District Six dying when she was unloaded from a train, her back covered with infected whip marks. It was before my Games. Danny and I brought her in so she wasn't alone when she died, and Ruth and Maysilee wouldn't let her grave remain unmarked… though we had to be careful about it.   
  
It was the first act of rebellion I ever took part in. I remember saying that it didn't matter, that the girl wouldn't care, because she was dead. Ruth said, _You're not dead. It matters what you treat them like. Makes a difference about who you are._  
  
I've been a part of a number of plots since then, most of them fizzling out to nothing, or blowing up in our faces like the alliance with the out-district raiders did, but the burial of the stranger from District Six, which had no impact on anyone but us… I sometimes feel like it matters more than the others. I'm sure Johanna would laugh at me if I said that -- just as I laughed at Ruth -- but my instincts still tell me that it's true, and what Katniss has just done here is more important than the pin, more important than her tantrum at evaluations, and more important than anything I'm doing here in the Capitol.  
  
Of course it's not being shown on the main screen.   
  
They go briefly to Eleven, then cut away when it becomes clear that a man there is grieving wildly. They go to Finch's nervous foraging. They point out another bush full of nightlock berries, as if we haven't seen her steer clear of them several times. Then there's a shot of Thresh (who won't know Rue died until tonight), and one of Clove and Cato, who are being kept from the scene by a fight with a mutt bear. There's even a brief shot of Peeta asleep in the mud.  
  
"Seeder."  
  
I feel her move in my arms, and look up to see Chaff, who looks grave.  
  
"Are they all right?" Seeder asks.   
  
"They're under guard," Chaff says. "There's a riot in the square." He grinds his teeth. "Damned hotheads. They're going to get themselves killed."  
  
I glance at the screen that was showing District Eleven a moment ago. It's black now, with a technical difficulties graphic at the center.  
  
"They had to express themselves _somehow_ ," Seeder says.  
  
"Maybe one of the big girls throwing rocks in the square could have expressed herself by volunteering," Chaff mutters.  
  
Seeder holds up her hand and closes her eyes. Chaff backs off.  
  
It takes fifteen minutes for the screen from District Eleven to come back to life. The crowd is smaller and completely subdued. The shot is also tighter. I'm guessing if the cameras pulled back at all, I'd see Peacekeepers stationed in towers with their weapons drawn.  
  
Seeder excuses herself to go mourn. Chaff gives me an earful about idiots in District Eleven getting themselves into trouble _again,_ and demands to know how I keep the lid on District Twelve, since so far, we haven't ended up with a full-scale prison wall around us and a mobile army of Peacekeepers roaming the streets. "They _know_ those boys can shoot," Chaff fumes. "They _know_ it, and they still practically _dare_ them to do it."  
  
I let him go on. We both know the answer, and we both know that Twelve has been known to pull stunts like this, too, but with a smaller physical area to fence off, the government has never seen a need to turn it into a highly expensive fortress. Eight thousand people in a small town with nowhere to hide are never going to be seen as the same kind of threat as a district of over a hundred thousand with thousands of square miles for rebels to hole up in.   
  
Katniss is wandering aimlessly now, looking spooked and empty. Her bow is raised, but she looks like she might start firing at shadows if she doesn't get herself under control. The main coverage switches to an analysis of Peeta's injuries, conducted by a jovial Claudius and a Capitol doctor who shows the fight from several angles, and deduces (a bit late in the game) that Cato missed the femoral artery, but Peeta has an infection. It's the most they've shown, and I hope it inspires people to send money for antibiotics, but most people are still focused on Rue.  
  
After an hour or so, Seeder comes out of the lounge, her face washed and her clothes changed. She goes to the booths and makes a call. It lasts for a long time. Then she comes back to the table and takes my hand. "Thank you, Haymitch," she says. "And the McKissacks and their friends want to thank Katniss for… well, things they didn't see, but they know anyway." She picks up the table phone, identifies herself, and says, "Please re-direct Rue's gift to Katniss Everdeen of Twelve, by request of the sponsors." She pauses. "I realize it's a district present. They are quite adamant on the subject." She hands me the phone, and I authorize the gift to Katniss. It will be a small loaf of bread. Nothing important in the scheme of things, but, like her action in showing respect to Rue's body, it means more than it really is. It's an alliance. A permanent one, by the look of it.  
  
In the arena, the sun is beginning to set, and Katniss comes to the base of a tree. She tightens up her things (now including Rue's things and Marvel's things), and braces herself to climb.  
  
A silver parachute floats down beside her. She looks at it curiously. She's not hungry or in trouble, so she must know that it's not about survival.  
  
She opens it and finds the bread, then looks up toward the setting sun. The reddish rays fall across her face, and the cameras catch the shattered prisms of light coming through the trees, surrounding her with golden light. She is again the girl on fire, but this time, it seems that even the arena is conspiring to create the illusion.  
  
"My thanks to the people of District Eleven," she says.  
  
It's a live broadcast. There's no time for it to be censored at the moment, though it will certainly be cut from the final compilation.  
  
But they see it now -- the connection between Eleven and Twelve. The acknowledgment of one another's humanity.  
  
Of course, the commentators cover as fast as they can, turning the subject to how she knew the bread was from Eleven, and twisting it into a conversation about how Peeta taught her about bread, complete with the ubiquitous pre-Games shot of them in the training center. I'm sure they think they're averting everyone's attention from what's actually happened, but going straight back to the romance narrative isn't going to help them in the end. Peeta's story is as dangerous as Rue's. In fact, when they move to the Capitol news, the people are already talking about how, now that poor Katniss has lost her friend, it's even more imperative that she reunite with Peeta. I give Seeder an apologetic glance -- it's subsuming Eleven's gift in Twelve's story -- but she smiles wearily and shakes her head.  
  
"The Gamemakers do what they do," she says.  
  
A runner appears from nowhere and tells us both to report for an interview. We're taken to the studio, but set up outside, as if we're just checking in from our Capitol revels. Seeder remembers Rue, and will not be taken from the topic. I have a feeling she won't be shown. I'm handed a bottle and asked about how wonderful Katniss is. I tell them she's a fine human being. And that I also hope she finds Peeta soon, as he's a great kid.  
  
None of this is live -- they didn't trust us to keep on script -- and it airs after a brainless comedy on late night coverage, which I watch from the Viewing Center. To my utter disgust, they ask Finnick what he thinks of Marvel getting a kill with "his" tactics. I've never seen Finnick so glad to be called off on one of his "dates." If the reporter had pressed more, I think he might have snapped. My interview is next, and it's kept strictly to extolling Katniss's virtues. Seeder's isn't shown at all, though they do show her talking to a commiserating patron in a high end jewelry shop.   
  
Effie goes to bed.  
  
Finnick, Annie, and Johanna slip back into the Viewing Center a little past midnight and pull chairs over to my table. Annie is rocking back and forth, muttering Rue's name. Finnick has his arm over her shoulders tightly. I'm guessing that Jo was on Annie duty while he was on his date.  
  
"Keep me awake, Haymitch," he says once he's got her settled. "I'm going to end up with arena flashbacks after that."  
  
"Like that would be new."  
  
"It is for me. I don't think about it. Honestly, I don't." I don't believe him about this, but I don't call him on it. He shudders. "How much of that mess of an interview did they show?"  
  
"Just you looking annoyed."  
  
"He kept following me -- the reporter. Kept asking if I thought Marvel had done justice to my technique, like it's some kind of dance move I invented."  
  
"And Marvel was crap at it, anyway," Jo contributes.  
  
"I used it against kids who were bigger than I was, because there was no option. At least not one I could see. I haven't thought of one since, either."  
  
"Sorry they did that."  
  
"Then my good friend Mr. Hooker -- save the sarcastic comments for later -- decided that _he_ wanted to hear all about that, too, after we finished our… other business. He wanted me to show him how to cast a net and spear someone. Using a silk sheet as a net."  
  
"I'd probably have given him a full demonstration," I say.  
  
"Yeah, _that_ would go over well." He snorts. "So tell me you have something to keep me up for a while, and talking about something else."  
  
I pick up my handheld and say, "Let's go for a walk."  
  
We don't go far. We don't need to. There's a fountain out front, and everyone knows we gather there. I press a signal to the Gamemakers that I'm leaving the building. A few minutes later, a green light comes on -- Plutarch. We're clear.  
  
I sit down on the wall. "I want the public clamoring for dual winners by tomorrow," I tell them.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Peeta can't wait much longer for treatment." I sigh. "And it's not just that. I think we can do it this year. I think we can seriously twist the Games themselves. There's already rioting in Eleven. And those shots of Katniss… they're gold."  
  
Johanna nods. "True enough. But pretty much, she's the one being all inspirational. He's… well, Haymitch, the first thing he did was ally with the Careers."  
  
"Yeah. But trust me. Peeta's got his own rebellion going on. It's about…" I look at Jo, leaning forward aggressively. I'm not sure she'll understand what Peeta's rebellion is about.  
  
"It's about love," Annie says abruptly. It's the first clear thing she's said since they came over.  
  
"Love?" Jo repeats dryly.  
  
Annie looks at Finnick. "They hate it when we love each other. Finnick and me. You and me."  
  
"You and me," Jo repeats, bemused.  
  
"I love you," Annie says, surprised. "Of course I love you. You're always there for Finnick and me, even when you pretend you don't love us. We _do_ know better, you know."  
  
Jo squirms uncomfortably.  
  
"And I love Mags, but they hate it when I go and sit with her in the hospital. They keep saying we should let her slip away, since she's old and there's brain damage. Even though they're doing really well with it! She's talking almost normally again."  
  
"No offense," Jo says, "but so what? What does that have to do with anything? What does it have to do with the famed Star-Crossed Lovers of District Twelve?"  
  
"It's something they can't abide," Finnick says. "And if we use it to twist their own Games…" He looks at me for confirmation, and I nod. "Then it's a crack in their power."  
  
"You're kind of a bastard," Jo says, looking at me sideways. "Don't get me wrong. I appreciate that in a person. But you're going to use that little girl's death to push your story. You want people to start feeling sorry for poor Katniss, and how she's lost her friend, and now she needs to find her one true love. Right? And then you're going to work it for every bit of goodwill you can get."  
  
"I'm going to put Snow in the position he puts everyone else in. He has to either give in, or lose something that matters to him."  
  
"What matters to Snow?"  
  
"Keeping the circus going. Making sure no one sees the wires." I look out over the Capitol, twinkling in the dark of the deep part of the night. "And I know I'm a bastard. But I'm giving Rue her dying wish. I'm getting Katniss out of there. I don't think she'd mind."  
  
We talk a little bit longer, then the green light on my handheld goes red -- someone is listening. By this point, we've pretty well shifted to the efforts to retrain Mags after her stroke, so it doesn't matter, but it does prompt a little playacting from Finnick, who jumps up joyfully and declares that he hasn't danced enough with his two girls. He proposes hitting the parties again.  
  
Effie is up when I get back inside, and she sends me off to sleep. I suppose no one would buy me at the parties, anyway.  
  
I fall asleep quickly and dream of nothing I can remember in the morning. Effie has coffee at our table. Katniss is up and hunting. Peeta is unconscious. They're showing footage of the school in Twelve. It's been so long since I've had anyone in the final eight that I'd forgotten how the kids there decorate the halls with wishes for the tributes. Mockingjays are drawn all over the walls. The kids all look dazed.  
  
The Capitol coverage turns to people on the street. Their wishes are becoming open now. It's made the morning news shows. Annie, of all people, has taken to the cameras with gusto, talking about love and loyalty. "And since there are two district teams left, wouldn't it be wonderful for them to win together?"  
  
Jo, beside her, rolls her eyes. "Besides, if Katniss Everdeen gets out of there, you wouldn't want her stuck out in Victor's Village alone with Abernathy, would you? Talk about a fate worse than death."  
  
Annie gives her an exasperated, "Jo!"  
  
"Haymitch," Effie says, "this is… this isn't how it's done…"  
  
"I know. It's great, isn't it?"  
  
She smiles and nods.  
  
"You want them both back, too, don't you?"  
  
"I do." She looks around nervously and pushes an egg sandwich into my hand. "You best get your strength up, Haymitch. I have a feeling you're going to have a long day."  
  
"Can you hold down the fort, or do you need more rest?"  
  
"I'm fine. Go work the problem."  
  
I leave.  
  
Usually in the Capitol, I avoid the crowds -- usually, I'm not doing anything I want to be seen at -- but today, I dive straight into the biggest parties I can find. I don't say anything directly about dual victors, even though they ask me about it, and how I would feel about that kind of a rule change. I point out that it's the Gamemakers' prerogative, and I wouldn't presume to question them. But I tell them about how Katniss watches out for her family, and Peeta is the son of the boy who took all the bread recipes from my Victory Tour. I talk about how much Peeta loves her, and how I think she'll realize that she feels more for him than she admits… if only they have time. I talk about marriage in District Twelve, and how my parents loved each other fiercely, and stayed together until Daddy's death, and how he told me that Momma was the best woman who ever lived.  
  
They eat this up. It's not a surprise. I've been observing the Capitol for years, and I know how hungry they are for normal families, even if they don't realize it. How they never get enough of love stories. How Mimi Meadowbrook whispered into the darkness that she wasn't doing too well at being a better person, no matter how hard she tried.  
  
They want to be heroic and romantic. More than that, they want to be normal. And most of all, they want to be clean. They want to scrub their souls the way Katniss has been scrubbing her skin and clothes.  
  
They want to be on the side of the angels who lit up the night at the parade.  
  
I have lunch in a crowded pavilion, and Chaff and Seeder join me. Seeder praises Katniss fiercely, and says she doesn't just want the girl to win for Rue. She wants her to be _happy_ for Rue.  
  
At two-thirty, I'm called back to Games Headquarters, where a frustrated looking Plutarch -- he doesn't like it when he doesn't know the plan -- takes me up the elevator to the Gamemakers' office. Brutus is already there.  
  
Of course, most of the Gamemakers are running the arena right now. I can see them gathered around their projections. The screens are silent here; each technician is listening to a different sound feed. I see Katniss forcing herself through the day.  
  
But the important Gamemakers are here. Plutarch. Seneca Crane. Genesia Kellogg. A man I've met a few times by the name of Marcus Gray, who always wants to know what I think of the arenas. (I've held my tongue. Mostly.)  
  
"Both of you still have viable district teams," Crane says.  
  
"'Viable' may be an overstatement for Twelve," Brutus sneers.  
  
" _Living_ teams," Plutarch clarifies.  
  
"There's quite a storyline from Twelve. They've been together from the beginning. From that spectacular entrance on." He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. "I think the audience would love to see it through to the end. I know they would. I've been getting calls all morning." He gives a sheepish smile. "I admit, I would, as well."  
  
"You plan to rig it for the girl?" Brutus asks, rising.  
  
"Of course not!" Crane manages to look offended at the very thought that the Games could be rigged, which must qualify him for some kind of acting award. "But since we do have two teams, it occurs to me… a team could win."  
  
Brutus sits down, still looking suspicious. "A team."  
  
"Yes. I've had our researchers going over the laws of the Games all morning. While it hasn't been allowed before, I think it would be in the _spirit_ of the Games… yes. The spirit. The nobility. The storyline."  
  
I glance at Plutarch, who's keeping his expression deliberately blank. It occurs to me that Seneca Crane may well believe his own lies. He really isn't in it for the political statement. It's the show he loves.  
  
I try to look surprised.  
  
"I want your thoughts, as mentors. I don't think I could do this if only one pair was still alive, even if they are popular. But Clove and Cato haven't exactly been seen as partners. Just allies. Can we make their story compelling as well?"  
  
Brutus looks utterly wounded by this idea. His notion of a narrative is _Kill them all._.  
  
So I spend the next hour helping the Gamemakers come up with a story for Cato and Clove. It's too late to play a romance, and they wouldn't know to play along anyway, but they _have_ been working well together. I manage to get Brutus to contribute a little bit about District Two, and how they know each other there, then I work with Plutarch and Crane to craft a story about a respectful friendship, with both of them standing up for each other. It will fit what we've seen in the arena, and Brutus thinks the families will be able to pick it up in interviews.  
  
After we decide on the story, Crane has to take it to Snow for approval. If there's a moment it could fall apart, that's it.  
  
Plutarch looks like he wants to talk, but I ignore him. I get in the elevator. Brutus follows. He hits the stop button almost as soon as we're away from the Gamemakers' floor.  
  
"This is crap," he says.  
  
"You're rolling in it, too."  
  
"My tributes could both win on the merits. They don't need to play this sentimental game you like."  
  
"Brutus, if they do, then maybe you can take them both home. If you don't go along with it, you'll lose one of them one way or another at least."  
  
"That's the way the Hunger Games are played! It's about being strong, not about being… stories."  
  
"I want to save both of my tributes. And if they die, I wouldn't argue with saving both of yours. Either way, it's one less dead kid this year."  
  
I start the elevator again.  
  
We go back to the Viewing Center, and wait for the verdict.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gamemakers announce their new twist in the rules, and Katniss goes searching for Peeta. Meanwhile, Haymitch sees the euphoria in the Capitol.

Chaff has a bottle of his homemade peach brandy at his table, and he drinks it slowly. He keeps himself calm while Thresh fights with another mutt, but he maintains an even keel. He doesn't start to get tipsy. The brandy has the high and sweet aroma of fruit that's gone over, and as the day wears on and Katniss just wanders through the arena, looking dazed, that smell is drilling into my brain. I'd like to ask Chaff to move it away (or maybe just hand me the bottle and let me drain it), but I've been telling him for years that I only get drunk when I want to, and I don't _need_ the stuff.  
  
Since he really _is_ like that -- he can take a swig now and then, occasionally have a blast on a night out, then get back to reality -- he believes it completely. I think he'd think a lot less of me if I let on that I sometimes drink for days on end and get the shakes after a week or so if I _don't_ drink (today, Effie's given me a shot of straight vodka, and is sitting between me and Chaff's brandy with her eyes narrowed), so I don't bring it up. I will Effie not to bring it up, either.  
  
Mandatory coverage begins with Katniss sitting by a smoky fire, clearly trying to draw out Cato and Clove, though they're far off and paying more attention to Thresh's fire at the moment. The beginning segment was clearly compiled during the day, as I'm stated to be in "negotiations" with the Gamemakers. Effie gives a wonderful interview about Katniss. She seems to think that Katniss's fury at Peeta after the interviews was just "surprise."  
  
Lip readers are brought in to try and decipher Katniss and Peeta's conversations here in the Capitol, before their words were being recorded carefully. There's the conversation by the chariot, where they're clearly flirting, then the one on the roof, where no one can tell what they're arguing about, including me.  
  
They also re-show some of the footage from the school, and cut in a picture of a District Twelve yearbook (an odd thing that the school library keeps copies of, but no one ever purchases, of course… but it's come in useful from time to time in the Games, which is probably why they publish it). In the picture, Peeta is in a wrestling match. They focus in on a shot of Katniss in the background, her books clasped against her chest, watching the match with solemn eyes.  
  
I think of her angrily insisting that Peeta talk about his strength and skill.  
  
I can't shake the feeling that she isn't watching casually. It doesn't matter, I guess -- real or fake, the audience buys it. As far as I can tell, the Gamemakers buy it. Maybe I'm just buying it, too.  
  
They cut to on-the-street interviews in the Capitol.  
  
"I _love_ them!" a teenage girl squeals. I think she's the president of Finnick's fan club. He's been working the Fannicks pretty hard over the past few days. "I think they're so beautiful!"  
  
Valerian Vale, out at a party, slips into his soap opera persona and, weepy-eyed, says, "It's a story for the ages, isn't it? His love for her, and the way she's learning to love after all the tragedies in her life?"  
  
An older woman who's sponsored us in the past -- and may well be in the huge list this year; I'm embarrassed to realize that I'm not sure -- expresses the belief that as a young woman, she certainly would have thought Peeta to be "hot stuff, no pun intended."   
  
An old man who I know plays chess with Chaff in the park reminisces about courting his wife, "back when we still knew how to do the thing properly, like that young fellow does."   
  
An accountant who Effie used to date -- she must have screwed up her courage to call him -- says that it all "adds up."  
  
All of them are almost certainly acting on our behest in one way or another, or on some level being consciously manipulative, but on some other level, they seem absolutely sincere. It's the last interview that really drives it home to me: I may be playing an angle, but the real idea is spreading through the Capitol like wildfire. The cameras are set up in the play area near City Center, and a little girl of about eight years old, her hair in a clumsy braid and a yellow paper mockingjay taped to her shirt, says, "I want them to live happily ever and ever and _ever_ after!"  
  
They cut back to Claudius, who's wearing a self-satisfied, irritating little smile. "We may have a little surprise coming, friends," he says. "We'll have to wait and see."  
  
Coverage moves to District Two, where the story I helped Seneca Crane cook up gets off to an awkward start. There are no pictures of Cato and Clove watching each other, or playing together, or even in the same room, though the parents insist stiffly that they are old friends and Cato always let Clove on his team. They don't try to ad lib any specific stories. The families are having a picnic together, with food I recognize as coming from a Games staff catering truck. Clove's father looks ready to kill the next person to ask him a question. Cato's father is more personable, sharing tales of his son's great athletic prowess.  
  
Across the room, Brutus is glaring at the screen. Enobaria notices me looking and rolls her eyes extravagantly.  
  
Since none of the tributes are doing anything interesting as the sun begins to set in the arena (Katniss has climbed a tree to sleep in, even though it's only early in the evening), they return to Claudius's studio, where legal experts are laying broad hints that the surprise they have in mind may be skating up to the edge of the law.  
  
"You think they're going to do it?" Chaff asks me.  
  
I nod.  
  
Claudius touches his earpiece, and says that he wants to make the announcement live, so the audience and the tributes will get it at the same time.  
  
The screen splits into three panes, showing the studio, Katniss, and the District Two tributes.  
  
Claudius announces that the Gamemakers will allow team winners.  
  
Cato and Clove dance around their fire.  
  
In her tree, Katniss's eyes go wide, and she yells Peeta's name.  
  
This could have been a suicidal move. No doubt about it. But there's something in the way her voice sounds, in the way she grasps at her chest, as if she's trying to keep her heart from bursting out… no amount of playacting would ever be as convincing, and I doubt she thought about it for a second. If she had, she never would have done it.  
  
There's no harm done, of course. Clove and Cato are far enough away not to hear it (and are, at any rate, preoccupied with their own celebration). Finch and Thresh are both shown, but neither seems to care.  
  
Here, Finnick begins to clap. Johanna and Annie pick it up, and soon, there's a standing ovation from everyone except Brutus. Even Enobaria is hooting and hollering. Claudius, who had clearly been hoping for an immediate fight and a reckless run through the woods at night, pretends to be enthusiastic about Katniss's smart decision to wait for morning… not that anyone is paying attention.  
  
We're not the only ones celebrating. Cameras in Two and Twelve are set up in the public squares. There's stunned silence, then, quite suddenly, cheers break out. People on Capitol streets are shown clapping and hugging each other.  
  
The evening turns into a party. Effie and I flip a coin to decide who will go out into the Capitol to turn the enthusiasm into sponsorships, and who will remain at the phone to take them. I suspect Effie cheats, because she wants me to get out. She doesn't even show me the coin when she says she'll be staying here. Chaff opts to go with me, leaving Seeder at the table, and we go to a crowded restaurant. He works on sponsors for Thresh, but of course, Thresh is no longer a potential beneficiary of the new rule, so it's hard going. All I have to do is smile at people and they throw money at me. At some point, a camera crew finds us and asks us about the ruling. I tell them it's about time, and Chaff grumbles that it's a little late.  
  
On the television screens around us, the District parties look almost as wild as Capitol parties. People are dancing in circles. In Twelve, there's a woman who is clearly from the Capitol film crew dancing barefoot on the cobblestones. Most bizarrely, I see Ruth Everdeen grab Mir Mellark and spin her around in a joyous circle. It's an entirely genuine moment, but a completely unreal one to anyone who knows them. Aside from the fact that they hate each other, I don't think I've ever seen Mir taken by surprise or Ruth completely ebullient. Primrose runs to Danny and throws herself into his arms. She grabs his hands and pulls him out into the square to dance.  
  
More precisely, she pulls him toward the cameras. She's working them as well as Katniss does.  
  
"Thank you!" she calls out. "Thank you! Thank you!"  
  
For a brief instant, I feel like she's thanking _me_. I'm absurdly touched by it before I realize that she's probably thanking the Gamemakers.  
  
The party goes on. Alcohol is flowing freely, and after a while, I have to leave the restaurant, before I give in to the general mood and wreck everything. Chaff and I walk back toward the Viewing Center.  
  
The streets aren't a whole lot better. A deliriously happy woman, who is clearly enhancing her happiness with some kind of pharmaceutical aid, runs toward me with her fists full of sparklers. She shouts "Happily ever after!" then heads off into the darkness, whooping.  
  
A vendor has dropped his prices, and even offers me a free sparkler. I take it and hold it up. It's a poor imitation of the kids in the chariot, but people come flocking over to me anyway. Pads of paper and items of clothing are held out for signing, so Chaff takes up the sparkler, and I lean in to take care of the fans.  
  
"Now, the kids aren't out of the woods yet," I say. "Peeta's awfully sick. He's going to need medicine, and that means we still need your help. Can you help?"  
  
The cheer that goes up seems to be an enthusiastic yes.  
  
A young teenage girl comes up. She's holding something that she's printed out -- a picture Peeta drew that they showed on television. She hands it to me to sign.  
  
"Oh, now, maybe you should wait for Peeta to come out and sign that for you," I suggest, giving her a grin.  
  
To my surprise, she starts crying. "I can't…"  
  
"You can't what, honey?"  
  
"I don't have money. I can't help them. I don't have anything! I'm useless. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to sign anything…"  
  
The girl looks down. I see a lot of other people in the crowd shuffling aimlessly. I'm used to dealing with the Capitol's rich, and even the poor are well-to-do by District Twelve standards, but there's more than money in this, no matter how much I need it.  
  
Besides, I've been there. I know what it feels like to realize that no matter how much something matters to you, you're stuck with the resources you have, and they're never going to add up.  
  
I take the paper and I sign the back of it in big letters. "Now, you listen to me. Everybody listen! I never had money when I was a kid. I was so broke I wore my daddy's old shoes to school, and I sent my brother to school in Momma's. But that didn't make me useless, and you're not useless, either. Do you hear me?"  
  
"I guess."  
  
"I do need money for their medicine. But money's not all there is. You believe in them, don't you?"  
  
"I do," the girl says.  
  
"Well, I do, too. And they need that as much as the other." I signal to Chaff and he hands me the sparkler. I hand it to her. "You take it out in the night. You be the girl on fire."  
  
She takes it and stares at it in awe.  
  
I turn to the vendor. "I'll take your whole stock," I tell him. "You just hand them out."  
  
He holds out his thumbpad, and I put in my print.  
  
In ten minutes, we have a small army of kids with sparklers, lighting the street up like it's the middle of the day. I see one boy pass his sparkler to a smaller child, who runs wildly into the shadows, lighting the way.  
  
Chaff and I turn down another street and continue on our way.  
  
Johanna and Annie come out of a bar (both of them a little drunk) and walk with us. Finnick's on one of his dates. We're stopped by people on the street demanding autographs, offering money, and, as often as not, just wanting to tell us how excited they are, and how they want everyone to come home now. Many of them have acquired sparklers.  
  
"It should be a whole _alliance!_ " a boy says in an excited way. "Then they could all make friends, and all of them could go home. It would be like you and _your_ friend!" he tells Jo.  
  
Jo, who simply does not discuss her alliance with River -- it wasn't even especially featured on the official version, so whoever this is must have been a fan in real time -- smiles tightly. I squeeze her shoulder.  
  
Someone snaps a picture of this, and by morning, there's speculation on the Capitol gossip shows that I'm in love with Jo. It's been a while since they bothered with rumors about me, but now that my tributes are a hot commodity, I'm suddenly of interest again. There's an actual debate about my love life. They call me for a comment (audio only). I raise an eyebrow at Effie and she just shrugs, so I go back to my usual joke: "I'm saving myself for Effie Trinket."  
  
Oddly, though Effie _is_ the only person I've considered a relationship with for years -- she's the only person who's been consistently _around_ for years -- she's the one they completely ignore in favor of more exotic fare. Today's candidates, other than Jo, are three of my sponsors from the Daughters (including Aquila; I hope she's not angry), Cinna's partner Portia, Cinna himself, Seeder, and Finnick. Finnick finds it hilarious. Cinna, who drops by for breakfast (and to see how he can use his new popularity to help the cause), complains about me not buying him flowers anymore. Portia is less amused. Jo makes gagging sounds and says it would be like fooling around with her father.  
  
I make a face at her. "Hey!"  
  
"Tell me it's not possible," she says. "I've heard about your Victory Tour. You sure you didn't swing through District Seven, say, twenty-one years ago? I mean, you have to admit -- our cheerful dispositions are _awfully_ similar."  
  
"Yeah, Jo. I was swinging over to the other side of the country to have an affair with a married lumberjack."  
  
"Fine, spoil my fun. I like to pretend. I think you just found a new pretend daughter, and you like her better." She jerks her chin at the screen, where Katniss is starting to stir in the tree. "I have to go pout now."  
  
I don't actually feel old enough to be the father of a twenty-year-old, but I guess the math works out, sort of, and the exaggerated sulk she throws herself into -- flopping dramatically down onto a sofa and covering her ears -- makes everyone laugh.  
  
I let it go.  
  
Katniss is careful even in the daylight, much to the annoyance of Claudius's daytime replacement. His last name is Bidwell -- the same as a boy I killed twenty-four years ago, which I register but don't bother trying to figure out -- and he obviously wants to be Claudius when he grows up. He's very impatient at not having an immediate battle to report on.  
  
Katniss eats a large breakfast and arranges her supplies. I expect she's considering the problem of Peeta's whereabouts.  
  
Meanwhile, Clove and Cato decide to celebrate their new chance to live by trying to hunt down the single tributes (Cato's notion is that they'll battle Peeta and Katniss in a final, glorious melee of some kind). They're down in Thresh's territory, looking for a fight. Thresh is keeping to himself, and Finch, who has been stealing his food -- more or less with his permission -- hides in a niche in the rock, covering herself with shrubbery.  
  
There's coverage from Twelve and Two. They've allowed the school kids to go to the gym and watch the events unfold live. In Two, they're used to it at this stage of the Games. I think their schools might even be closed from the final six on, so everyone can luxuriate in the spectacle (except the parents of the dead tribute, of course). In Twelve, they're piled onto the bleachers. I can see that there are now hand-drawn cartoons on a lot of the shirts. These are mostly mockingjays and pictures of Katniss and Peeta fighting back to back. One girl says that hers was drawn by Peeta's brother. The reporters marvel that District Twelve is so moved by all of it. ("The normally taciturn district," one says solemnly from the slag heap, "is coming to life in the excitement of the Games.")  
  
The normally taciturn but now enlivened Katniss is also shown again, screaming Peeta's name last night. They even re-run the interviews and have body language experts on to talk about what she might really be feeling. There's a good deal of giggling in the gym, though it doesn't make the central broadcast. I can't blame them. They probably have a better read on Katniss than the experts do.  
  
Katniss finally strikes out with a deliberate stride -- she is beyond good with the cameras; she has an instinctive sense of where they are and exactly how they'll show her every move -- and heads for the creek.  
  
She looks at the water, then decides to go downstream. She takes off her shoes and walks in the water, probably serving the dual purpose of hiding her tracks and keeping her cool. The temperature readings from the arena don't look very comfortable.  
  
She follows along the stream as a bend takes her closer to Peeta, and closer to the edge of the arena, though she doesn't know either of those things. The smart move for Cato and Clove would have been to build a camp up here, above the narrow, rocky ground. Anyone not using the lake -- which they know Katniss and Peeta aren't -- would be likely to fetch up in this little ravine.  
  
Luckily, Cato and Clove aren't master strategists, and Katniss is entirely unmolested. In fact, all of the other tributes are on the far side of the arena. She could set up housekeeping here.  
  
She seems to recognize that it's not the safest terrain, and is spooked by it, but before her instincts take over, she notices a long-dried smear of blood on the rocks. She runs to it and touches it, almost reverently, then continues downstream.  
  
I hadn't noticed much of the blood that Peeta left on his trail, and clearly, the Careers didn't notice it. I have a feeling that the Gamemakers didn't notice it, because their breathless narration seems a bit taken aback by the way Katniss is following the trail. The Peacekeepers have dogs who could follow a trail this old, but I've never seen a human do it.  
  
She finally reaches the little bend in the river where Peeta is buried in the bank. There are fewer smears here, though she does find one. I don't know if she somehow senses him nearby, or hears his slight breath, or is maybe just desperate, but she whispers, "Peeta! Peeta!"  
  
All around her, the mockingjays pick up the call, and the air is filled with a long, gasping sigh -- "ee-a, ee-a, ee-a."  
  
She looks up in horror at the potential sign to her enemies, and takes a step back, her foot dropping into the pool Peeta has been reaching out to drink from.  
  
He says, "You here to finish me off, sweetheart?"  
  
She jumps, almost comically surprised. On the screen from the District Twelve gym, I see a cheer go up that must be deafening, but there's no sound on it here, and there's no way the Gamemakers will break away from this little scene to show it.  
  
"Peeta?" Katniss whispers. "Where are you? Peeta?"  
  
"Well, don't step on me."  
  
She looks down.  
  
Peeta opens his eyes.  
  
It's a startling shot, those sky-blue eyes opening in the muck. He laughs at her gasp, and his teeth are as much of a shock. It's like the earth itself waking up and answering her.  
  
Katniss makes him close his eyes and mouth so he disappears again, then shakes her head in wonder. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off."  
  
He smiles again. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying."  
  
It is a perfect line. Light, not at all self-pitying, but bringing back the gravity of the situation. She tries to flatly forbid his death, and tells him that they're working together now. He tries to warn her about his wound, but she's not really listening. He lightens things up again by begging for a kiss.  
  
Then she pulls him out of the mud.  
  
There's no more to joke about.  
  
Even Brutus swears under his breath.  
  
Peeta has been buried in the mud for days now, only moving his hand out to gather water. I don't think any of us had realized that he's completely unable to move. He screams as Katniss tries to roll him.  
  
The trackers in his body start getting more readings as his blood begins to flow more freely. His nervous system is all right -- it's not a straight paralysis -- but the infection that's been festering in his wound has stiffened all of his muscles, and any motion is causing him extreme pain.  
  
Katniss gives up on any idea of pulling him into the water. Instead, she cuts away his undershirt and starts to bathe him where he is. She pulls out his tracker jacker stings and applies Rue's paste to him, and uses some of her burn ointment on his chest. She even digs out some fever reduction pills from Marvel's supplies and force feeds them to him. She tries to give him food, but only manages to get him a few bites of dried apple.  
  
The bath takes a very long while. Between the blood and the pus and the mud and greenery, and the fact that Katniss can't get him to the stream to submerge him, she ends up cleaning him with handfuls of water for hours. There will be plenty of good shots for the mandatory viewing cut later.  
  
Meanwhile, I get serious about Peeta's medication. Every time I try to get an answer on the cost, they raise it, just above whatever I have.  
  
By the time Katniss has worked her way to Peeta's leg and is trying to drain the pus, I'm starting to see the lay of the land.  
  
They're going to keep the medicine away.  
  
Not permanently. But they'll make all of the sponsors irrelevant.  
  
I press my lips together tightly. I've seen this happen before, though my tributes have never been the target.  
  
They'll find a way to get the medicine into the arena, and then they'll use it to cause a fight.  
  
I stop asking for it.  
  
In the arena, Katniss continues the unpleasant business of bringing Peeta back to life.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Katniss takes care of Peeta, Haymitch meets with the Gamemakers.

**Part Three: Nightlock**

  
  
**Chapter Nineteen**  
Peeta's bath goes on for hours. It doesn't just _seem_ like hours, like so many things in the arena do. Going handful by handful, even an occasional bottleful, Katniss has to work her way through layers and layers of Peeta's camouflage. Mandatory viewing starts a bit early today -- pretty much as soon as school lets out in the Capitol -- and she's still at it. She's managed to work her way to his legs, and she is studiously looking away the higher she gets.   
  
Ruth Everdeen comes back on for another rundown of what Katniss might know about treating Peeta. Some of it is literally repeated from earlier. She looks confused at the questions, but goes along with them. She even brings Prim up to talk about proper bandaging, though she says that they shouldn't bandage until it's clean.  
  
It's not just the mud, of course. Now that the wound is in the open air, diseased pus is seeping out of it. She drains it no less than three times, using Rue's leaves, and each time requires another flushing out. His skin, as it comes out from under the mud, is shockingly pale, and from some camera angles, the bone can clearly be seen beneath the flesh.  
  
She finally decides it's clean enough to bandage (in District Twelve, Ruth agrees; Prim is no longer in the frame). There's some white cotton in Marvel's first aid kit, and Katniss carefully binds up the leg. It looks less deadly, though I have his medical readouts, and I know that she's only bought him a little time. She stares at his shorts, which are still covered with mud, then hands him Rue's backpack.  
  
"Here," she says. "Cover yourself and I'll wash your shorts."  
  
Johanna, who's pulled a big blue couch over to my table and is sharing it with Finnick and Annie, bursts out laughing. It's a loud, genuine belly laugh. Annie puts her hand over her mouth and giggles, and Finnick snorts back his drink. The laugh starts to bounce around the room. Even Peeta seems amused.  
  
"Hey, Brutus," Faraday Sykes says as Katniss starts washing the shorts. "You should get a message to Cato to attack naked next time. She won't be able to aim with her eyes closed."  
  
"It's a good plan," Chaff says, leaning back. "And Thresh has the necessary weapons, too."  
  
I make an obscene gesture at all of them, but I'm laughing, too.  
  
I'm also calculating how this is going over with the sponsors. She's been good at being inspiring and brave, but I think this is the first time they've caught her being kind of… endearing. It wouldn't work if she faked it, but it's so clearly real, and so clearly _Katniss_ , that I think she just became the silly best friend of half the teenage girls in the Capitol, not least because she's expressing something that I suspect most of them feel at one point or another, but which they must pretend, at all costs, to find ridiculous.  
  
The laughter in the Viewing Center has barely died down when Katniss starts scrubbing the shorts between two rocks. Peeta, not as sanguine as he pretends, takes the opportunity of her turned back to pour water from the bottle over himself before putting the backpack right where she told him to. He's also careful to keep it at an angle that any camera would be hard pressed to get around, even while he's cleaning.  
  
"You know," he says, "you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person. I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."  
  
I blush. It never occurred to me for a second that he'd mention that, but I guess I'm fair game. Finnick raises an eyebrow at me.  
  
"Drunk," I mutter, looking away.  
  
Finnick doesn't say anything.  
  
Katniss wrinkles her nose. "What's he sent you so far?"  
  
"Not a thing," Peeta answers, and I want to crawl under the table, even though I'm working every contact I've got to afford his medicine. "Why, did you get something?" he asks.  
  
"Burn medicine. Oh, and some bread." She doesn't specify that this wasn't one of my gifts.  
  
"I always knew you were his favorite," Peeta says lightly.  
  
"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me."  
  
"Because you're just alike."  
  
Katniss purses her lips at this, but doesn't comment. I am not sure what to do with this conversation. My tributes have occasionally mentioned my name, but this is the first year that they seem to think of me regularly. Katniss thanked me for the burn ointment. Peeta is talking about how much like me Katniss is. And joking about who I like better. Like I'm a regular person who's in their lives, who they talk about like…  
  
Well, like an annoying, drunk, rich uncle who might or might not send them presents, but that's about as close as anyone from Twelve has come to including me in their lives for _years_.  
  
I have a brief and vivid daydream about having a picnic with them in Victor's Village, Peeta complaining that I never bring him food, and Katniss rolling her eyes at me and laughing. I laugh, too.  
  
"Are you all right?" Finnick asks.  
  
I shake it off. Stupid thought. Even if -- _when_ \-- I get them both back, the chances that they'll want much to do with me as I am in Twelve are pretty slim, and I'm not cut out to be anyone's crotchety uncle. "I'm great," I tell him.  
  
Even the Capitol can't make much of the drying of Peeta's laundry. He falls asleep, so Katniss isn't talking. They go to the street to talk to fans, with the theme being couples where one person is very ill. They bring up Agathe the Last, the queen of Denmark during the Catastrophes, who stayed with her dying consort as the sea swallowed up the land. I've read a play about her. It's usually held up as a great romance, and I guess young actresses love to play the part, as it's more or less a solo show. Mirrem Mellark (though she was still Mirrem Murphy then) did the show in high school -- it was the last show before the government dissolved all non-essential activities at the school -- and Danny gave his all to the five or six times he was allowed to interrupt her monologue. I half expect the Capitol to come up with footage, but they actually miss this trick. Mir must be disappointed.  
  
Other couples talk about their own experiences -- colds, injuries, in one case, an actual deadly disease, though it sounds like they cured it fast enough. An old woman with a dog says, "My first husband used to get the most horrible headaches! I sat by his side through them for almost the whole contract! Poor dear."  
  
I imagine this is taken badly in Twelve. It's about the silliest comparison I can think of to Peeta's situation. But I'm encouraged by it. She's clearly seeing herself as Katniss, and enjoying it.  
  
I don't get to see Twelve's reaction, because the reporters there are breathlessly sharing the information that the Everdeens, along with Katniss's "cousin" and "a neighbor girl" have retreated to the bakery with the Mellarks, and may be eating together even as we speak. They try to get a shot through the window, but fail miserably.  
  
Mir and Ruth breaking bread together. I'm glad to be several districts away from _that_ time bomb.  
  
I look at Peeta's vitals. They're not good, and they're not stable. He's going to need medicine, or all the fans in the world won't make a difference.  
  
I check our money, then look at the estimate that the Gamemakers are giving me now, expecting it to be just a shade higher.  
  
Instead, I get a message that the item is no longer available to me.  
  
I knew it was coming, but I thought they might try teasing long enough for me to beat them. I should have known better, though I guess it didn't matter. No matter what I offered as a price, they'd have raised it beyond what I had.  
  
On screen, a teenage girl gushes, "I wish Katniss could just give him a magic kiss and bring him back to life!"  
  
I think about the shards of pottery in Peeta's hands the night before the Games, and I'm not sure that's going to happen. It's too bad -- any hope she can give the audience of a happy ending will mean things I can buy them, even if it's not the medicine Peeta needs.  
  
Or maybe I can talk Plutarch into putting it back on the list. No one would blame me for trying, anyway.  
  
I tip the list in Effie's direction to show her the message, then say, "Going upstairs."  
  
"Good," she says. "You tell them that's not playing fair."  
  
"Yeah. Because playing fair is always their priority."  
  
"Tell them I don't like it, anyway."  
  
I smile at her. "I'll do that, Effie. Jo, help with the phones if they get nuts, okay?"  
  
Johanna sighs dramatically and gets into my seat as I vacate it. "I don't know," she says. "My heart might not be able to take the strain of figuring out whether or not she's going to peek under that backpack."  
  
"Want me to do anything?" Finnick asks. "I've got…" He wrinkles his nose. "Forty-five minutes before I have to 'meet' with Corvinus Eveleth."  
  
I shake my head. "Use them to do something you want to do."  
  
"Okay. See you later." He pauses, and I can see that he's got something on his mind, but he doesn't share.  
  
I go upstairs and ask to see Plutarch.  
  
"Mr. Heavensbee has another meeting," a secretary tells me. "He's off the premises."  
  
"I can take the meeting," someone says. I look over my shoulder and see Seneca Crane coming out of his private elevator, smiling. He claps me on the shoulder and leads me toward his office. "What can I do for you, Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
"The medicine Peeta needs…"  
  
"We thought it would be more of a challenge to have Miss Everdeen retrieve it for him. The audience would like to see her fight for him, as he fought for her." He goes behind his desk and frowns. "Of course, you'll keep that to yourself."  
  
I nod, resigned to it. I'm reasonably sure that, if I were to leak it, a mutt would eat Peeta on live television.  
  
"Don't worry. We'll wait until he's strong enough to get by without her for a few hours."  
  
"He could die in a few hours."  
  
"So could we." Crane smiles. "But we won't. And neither will he. I have very qualified doctors monitoring his tracker data. None of their estimates give him less than three days."  
  
"And if Katniss dies trying to get it for him? It would wreck the story."  
  
"Well, I'd certainly be rooting for her to succeed! So would the audience. I haven't seen them take to a tribute so well since Finnick Odair. And in her case, there's great substance to it."  
  
"Then there's no chance of getting the medicine back on the list?"  
  
There isn't. Crane keeps me a few minutes longer, talking about the stunning numbers of people viewing these Games during non-mandatory hours, and how much the public has enjoyed seeing District Twelve ("I understand that several shows are planning to do arcs related to Twelve over the next season. It's a hot property. You might even see tourism!")  
  
He finally lets me go. I see Plutarch when I go out into the work area. His partner, Fulvia, is with him. She is still trying doggedly to fit in. She has silver flowers tattooed on her cheeks now, and a bright green wig. Neither helps. She still has a deeply serious, almost truculent expression on her face. I know that she more or less singlehandedly got Plutarch to beat the re-education he was given in Capitol Dreams, but I've never understood their relationship. He clearly adores her, and she's totally devoted to him, but I've seen more passionate brick walls.   
  
She's also devoted _solely_ to him. I asked her once how I could help Effie beat the same kind of re-education, and her answer was essentially that it didn't matter, because Effie wasn't important and didn't have fine sensibilities like Plutarch's, and so could hardly be expected to defeat the drumbeat of what she called the idiot culture. When I asked if she'd try anyway while I was gone during the year, she looked at me like I was speaking a dead language. Plutarch's no better on this. I'd say he treats Effie like an Avox, but that's too generous. He treats her something like a vacuum cleaner or a blender that happens to be in my vicinity, which he sometimes has to reach around if he's trying to get my attention.  
  
Fulvia spots me and waves urgently, tugging on Plutarch's sleeve.  
  
Plutarch turns and smiles widely. "Haymitch! I heard you were up here." He crosses the room quickly, Fulvia in his wake, and claps his hands on my arms. "Your tributes are great this year. I've been meaning to talk to you about some side marketing we have going. Do you mind?"  
  
He leads me into a conference room and shuts the door. I hear white noise generators come on.  
  
"What are they playing at?" he asks, keeping up his grin and pulling out a chair for Fulvia. Clearly, we can be seen but not heard. "I assumed you meant to inspire our friends, not raise money for the Games."  
  
I lean back, trying to take on an insouciant air, like I'm dealing for doll rights. "They're my first responsibility."  
  
"I have people watching this, Haymitch. They know you're one of us. They know you're trying to push the mockingjay." He holds out a file of pictures that, bizarrely, really do show a line of Katniss dolls. "They saw her on fire. Now, they see her as a nursemaid. They think the boy will be a better speaker if he's given the right lines, but they're not all that sure about him after that alliance."  
  
"You want it back on track, get the medicine back on the list. No nursemaid if he's healthy."  
  
"I can't push it." He turns a page and starts showing me mock-ups of the doll clothes, which include the arena outfit, the interview dress, the parade outfit (the flames made from flashing lights), and the reaping outfit. On the facing page is a disturbing bodyless head with Katniss's face and hair, surrounded by toy hairdressing tools. "I'm in a more delicate situation than you think. I can't afford to have people looking at me right now."  
  
I stand and shake his hand, pulling the binder away. "That's your problem. Mine's my kids."  
  
"Your kids."  
  
"My tributes. I always call them that."  
  
"No, you don't. At least not out loud."  
  
"They're my problem right now. You worry about yours." I tuck the binder under my arm and open the door. The white noise stops. "I'll show these to Effie. She'll get a kick out of them. Thanks for showing me!"  
  
"You let me know if you think of any other details," he says. "I'll get it to the manufacturer."  
  
By the time I get back downstairs, Katniss has apparently decided that they've stayed in one place long enough. She's woken Peeta, and they're a few feet downstream from where he's been hiding. He's limping badly, and his face is the white of dried and cracked candlewax. As I sit down, she gets him into a little cave. If we weren't down to six tributes -- and mine weren't as popular as they are -- I'd think it would be a trap. It probably _would_ have been, earlier in the Games. There are obviously cameras set up there to catch some kind of potential action. But now, I think they'll let it be. They still have to make Katniss fight for him, after all.  
  
I check with Effie on the donations. We have a lot, but we can't use it. It's a very familiar feeling for me in my personal life, but it's new in the Games.  
  
Katniss tries to force some food and water into Peeta, but he doesn't take it. I don't think it's a noble instinct to preserve the food for her. I think he can't eat. She manages to get a few dried pears down his throat, and some water, then tries unsuccessfully to camouflage the cave. She tears down her work.  
  
"Katniss," Peeta says, and she comes over to him. She brushes the hair back from his eyes. It's a surprisingly tender gesture. He touches her hand with an expression of wonder. The Capitol will be eating this up, waiting for some magic, fairy tale kiss to cure him. "Thanks for finding me," he says.  
  
She looks down. "You would have found me if you could."  
  
"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back --"  
  
She frowns. "Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing."  
  
"I know, but just in case I don't --"  
  
"No, Peeta." She puts her finger on his lips. I look around. The other mentors are watching with varying degrees of curiosity. Some of the Capitol street-cams, not showing on the main screen, show girls with their hands clasped over their hearts in anticipation. "I don't even want to discuss it."  
  
"But I--"  
  
She kisses him.  
  
As kisses go, it's not much -- a dry, nervous peck, obviously her first attempt at such a thing. She blushes wildly. On the street, people cheer. Effie clasps her hands and smiles brightly. The phone starts to ring.  
  
"You're not going to die," Katniss says. "I forbid it. All right?"  
  
"All right," Peeta whispers. The look on his face tells me that he'd agree to abide by anything she said, if he could just hold onto that minute.  
  
The audience loves it.  
  
I pick up the second line and order some chicken broth to be dropped for Peeta. It will help him to get some nourishment, and I'm pretty sure that Katniss will know I approve as soon as she sees it. It's cheap. It won't interfere if I need something important later.  
  
Soup is a standard in the supply crafts, and they drop it immediately. She's gone outside to cool off when it comes, and she looks a little disappointed when she opens it. Probably hoping for the medicine, but she obviously gets the message, because when she takes it in, she kisses him again to wake him up (he seems as dazed with happiness as he is with fever), and says, "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."  
  
She kisses him quite a lot to get him to eat the broth. I'm not entirely convinced that she's not doing it because she wants to, no matter how useful it is for other purposes. She certainly seems to be getting better at it with practice. She finally gets all of the soup down his throat, and lets him fall asleep again. She gives him a fond smile, then tears into her own leftover food.  
  
There have been no deaths today, but it's clear from the aftershows that it's considered a very exciting day anyway. A few people leer that they're going to have to start watching late night. Most people that they talk to are nearly fainting at the great romance. They can't wait for Peeta to wake up again, so the show can continue. Meanwhile, Katniss is standing guard over him, her night-vision goggles on and her bow at the ready. I have absolutely no doubt that she'll shoot anyone who dares to come close, but no one on the street seems to see that as romantic. I wonder how it's going over at home.  
  
I send Effie to sleep the early shift. Finnick must be finished with his date, because he's back on television talking about how much he wished he had Peeta's luck. This is probably true -- he's had plenty of luck at falling in love, but none at all in getting the Capitol to accept it -- but obviously played to the cameras. They catch Johanna in a flashy club a few minutes later and ask about our non-existent affair and she repeats the business about me being her fake father, and being jealous of her fake sister. At the next table, Chaff is highly amused by this, and starts teasing me about my advanced age.  
  
I go to get Effie a few minutes after two, and crash down onto the bed to sleep. I dream that Maysilee is forty and living in Victor's Village. I'm still sixteen. She berates me until I age myself up to my current state, which she rolls her eyes at. Johanna is running around in the pigtails she wore for her reaping, sneezing out the last of the flu. Finnick and Annie are in the garden, down near the Cornucopia statue... though it's been replaced by Mimi's fountain. The word "REAPED" stands out, but it doesn't matter. They've already been reaped. The worst has happened. They survived. He's pushing her on a tree swing that doesn't exist. I sit down, and Peeta is a baby again, on my lap, drinking milk off my fingers and looking up at me with those big blue eyes, waiting for me to tell him some interesting story. There's another baby in a bassinet, who I assume from context is Katniss. Maysilee has pinned her diaper with the mockingjay pin, at any rate. Or maybe it was Cinna. Maybe I've hired a stylist to do her diapers. It makes as much sense as anything else.  
  
I glance over at a mirror in the nursery. I'm definitely my age, but I'm not drunk or sloppy. My clothes are mostly in order, except for a spot where Peeta threw up on me. It smells like white liquor. The dream changes into a memory of the train. He didn't throw up on me. I threw up on him. He cleaned me up.  
  
I wake up feeling low and useless. I don't need any prompting to tell myself that I'm not who Maysilee would have wanted me to be, let alone my mother or my girl.  
  
When I get back to the table, Katniss is up and trying to get Peeta to eat berries. He claims to feel better, and makes her go to sleep, though I can't imagine what good he thinks he'll do on watch. He promises to wake her in a few hours. He holds her until she goes to sleep, and I'm reasonably certain this time that she doesn't mind at all. It's dull storytelling, but the girls on the street are utterly enraptured. I call Cinna and ask him to make a video for all of the sponsor stations, to talk about how much the "star-crossed lovers" will need help. Effie goes to help him do it.   
  
The only thing I can think to do is get ready for the inevitable "feast" -- the moment they will try to draw the tributes into combat by offering them things they need. They don't do it every year, and my tributes have never been involved in one. I make a broad suggestion to Chaff that historically, this sort of thing has happened, and we "theoretically" discuss what to do if it should. I can afford almost everything in the book, but I can't think what would help Katniss. Armor would slow her down. She has her best weapon.  
  
Meanwhile, Thresh and Cato get into a no-holds-barred fight at the river, which is only stopped by the Gamemakers sending a water mutt between them. They're evenly matched physically. Cato seems to suspect that Thresh knows where Finch is, and is hiding her. I don't think he does, at least not anymore. She had been taking bits of his food, but not much of it, and she's been getting strange in her isolation. She seems to fear Thresh now -- she's actually closer to Katniss and Peeta -- and she won't eat anything growing in the arena. She's tried to catch animals, but the Gamemakers are playing keep-away with her, sending in mutts to guard even the things she _can_ eat. I guess they want to force her to a "feast" as well.  
  
Jo comes back and picks up the binder of doll pictures without comment. She leafs through it. "My dolls didn't get nice clothes like this," she says. " _Trees._ They were always dressed like trees."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
She scans the pictures, then frowns. "Wow. Lots of costumes. Thirteen of them. And thirteen kinds of brushes and combs. Who knew there were thirteen ways to make a brush?" She raises her eyebrows.  
  
I take the binder. I hadn't noticed it at all.  
  
Thirteen.  
  
I remember talking about it with Chaff and Finnick this summer, this secret that Plutarch was holding back. Is that who's watching? District Thirteen?  
  
I go through the pictures more carefully. There's a motif drawn around the doll's accessories -- feathers. Thirteen feathers. The braid on the disembodied head has thirteen segments. There are, as Jo pointed out, thirteen brushes and combs.  
  
I have a feeling that I know who Plutarch's meeting was with. I think he was making an alliance.  
  
I look at Jo. We can't say anything here. I put it away.  
  
Peeta lets Katniss sleep all day. She's annoyed when she wakes up, but I'm glad. If they're going to have a feast, it's better if she's not sleep-deprived.  
  
They joke a little, and Katniss obviously doesn't believe Peeta's lie about drinking water during the day, then she starts to take care of his wounds.  
  
When she takes the dressing off his leg, every thought outside the arena leaves my head.  
  
Peeta has blood poisoning. I've seen it from time to time at home, and kids in the arena have died of it many times over the years. There's no hiding it, and Peeta knows exactly what it means.  
  
Katniss tries to lie about it, but does a terrible job. She retreats outside to make soup, of all things. Most likely an excuse to let the horror she obviously felt show on her face as she works. She uses hot rocks to heat it up. When she goes back in, Peeta asks her to tell him a story. She tells him a long, rambling tale about how Primrose got her pet goat. She ends up talking about the goat licking Prim's face. I hope Prim is listening and taking notes so she doesn’t contradict it.  
  
Peeta wants to know if she left the pink gift ribbon around its neck, so he can make a perfect picture of it in his head.  
  
I'm guessing he's delirious.  
  
They're joking around about how much he's costing her when Claudius interrupts the scene with an announcement of a feast. All more or less as I expected, until Peeta grabs Katniss's shoulder and says, "No. You're not risking your life for me."  
  
"Who said I was?"  
  
He doesn't believe her for a moment, even when she tries to elaborate. ("Never gamble at cards," he tells her. "You'll lose your last coin.")  
  
She loses her temper and insists on going; he threatens to follow her.  
  
I check the list, find that I can get some sleep syrup with just a small nudge to our donations, and send it out to the sponsor boards. It's a cheap medicine in real life, but in the Games, it's going to take my whole stash of money, plus some. Again. I hope they don't decide to pull it from the list as well. I get a few supportive donations from Twelve -- nothing that makes a dent in the cost, but certainly enough to know that they'll support a decision to knock Peeta out for his own good. Most of the names attached are merchant names. One of them is Delly Cartwright, the girl who they pretended looked like our Avox.  
  
They eat the soup, which Peeta pretends enthusiasm for. Effie gets back and points to the boards. We've outdone our goal. I order the sleep syrup to be dropped as soon as Katniss goes outside.  
  
She goes out to wash up after the soup, and again, doesn't initially seem thrilled with the gift… but it doesn’t take her long to see the point. She mashes berries in the soup bowl, then mixes in the syrup, then goes in, gushing about finding a stash of "sugar-berries," which Peeta just has to taste.  
  
Peeta figures it out, but he's far too late. She holds his jaw shut until he swallows.  
  
He passes out, giving her a look of sheer fury before he slips under.  
  
She wipes a berry tenderly off his chin, and says, "Who can't lie, Peeta?"  
  
Then she bundles him up, curls up beside him to take his warmth, and waits there beside him for the dawn.


	20. Chapter 20

Merle Undersee calls me from Twelve at around eight o'clock. They've cancelled school tomorrow, so Peeta and Katniss's friends and family don't have to pretend to be worried about math tests during the Feast.  
  
"The bakery has to stay open, of course," he says, and I can see by the unconscious curl of his lip the hatred that the merchants have for this rule. The mines can run without an individual worker, if he decides to let them dock his pay for a day, but the shops have to stay open no matter what. Merle shakes it off. "Some of the older boys' friends are watching it, so Danny doesn’t have to, at least."  
  
"And Ruth?"  
  
"She's never exactly had steady business, and right now, no one's bothering her except the media."  
  
"Good."  
  
He looks over his shoulder toward a window that looks out on the square. "Haymitch… I don't know if it makes any difference, but they're waiting up with her out there. All the kids from school. Her friends from the Hob. Her family. Peeta's family. Everyone's in the square. _Together_."  
  
I understand what he's really saying -- the town and the Seam, so often at one another's throats, are holding a vigil as one family.   
  
"My wife wanted you to know," he adds. It's another loaded statement. He doesn't often talk about Kay as Maysilee's sister, for obvious reasons, but I know that it's the only reason she'd want to send me a message. It was Maysilee's dream, to have the whole district together.  
  
I nod. "You give Kay my love," I tell him.  
  
"I'll do that. They're out there. Kay and Madge. I'm going to join them."  
  
We hang up.  
  
"Isn't that lovely?" Effie says, looking up at the main screen, where I can now see what might well be all of District Twelve gathered together, a blanket of people covering the square. Some who are further from the screen have candles that twinkle in the darkness.  
  
"It's a first, anyway," I say.  
  
"No, it's not," Chaff says.   
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
He raises his eyebrows. "They did it for _you_. The last night of your Games, after your ally died. When you were sitting up and trying to get past that concussion."  
  
"Yeah, right."  
  
"Haymitch, I was sitting right here, watching. They sat there in the square all night. Your ally's sister was front and center, even though she was mourning."  
  
"You never said anything."  
  
"I assumed they told you at home."  
  
"You don't know Twelve, Chaff. Once a thing is done, it's over. We don't talk about things like that."  
  
Chaff looks confused -- probably the same way I look when he talks about the incomprehensible customs of District Eleven -- but I don't explain. In fact, I don't talk for a while. The idea that District Twelve rallied around me like this during the Games is completely alien. I never even suspected it. I'm not sure where to put the knowledge.  
  
I'm not surprised that no one mentioned it. Running around bragging about having done something nice is considered in poor taste in Twelve. I don't recall ever being taught such a thing. It's just woven into the culture. Mentioning it would be like reminding a person of a debt he owes, like he's too dishonorable to remember it on his own. I imagine, if I'd tried to keep up with my town friends, I'd have picked it up by osmosis -- that's how most things like that are known in Twelve -- but I haven't exactly been on social terms with anyone.  
  
They haven't done it since, but I haven't had a tribute keeping late hours and waiting for the dawn this late in the Games, either. Most of them have gone pretty suddenly.  
  
But they sat up with me. I hope someone gave Mom a blanket. It was summer, but she got cold very easily by then.  
  
I close my eyes. A moment later, I feel a warm hand on mine. Effie's. I squeeze it back.  
  
The night passes slowly for everyone.  
  
In the arena, Thresh booby-traps his camp, then starts a long hike around the lake, so he'll arrive at the Cornucopia from an unexpected direction.  
  
Cato and Clove spell each other to stay awake. Their plan is for Clove to go to the feast. She promises to kill Katniss, which Cato "allows" if she promises to make it good television. I have no idea why she doesn't kill him in his sleep for that comment, but for whatever reason, she doesn't. I try to figure out how to warn Katniss, but I suppose she already knows it's a trap. There's nothing to tell her that she doesn't know. Finch -- brilliantly -- goes straight to the Cornucopia, and camps in its mouth for the night. I half expect the Gamemakers to set mutts on her to drive her away, but they don't. I guess they realize that she'd bolt and not come at all if they spooked her, and they wouldn't want to spoil their fun.  
  
Katniss remains awake at Peeta's side. There's nothing for her to do except wait.   
  
I wait with her. Others come and go through the night, but I keep a pot of coffee beside me and remain at the table for all but tiny breaks, during which I take my handheld screen. It makes no difference at all. There's nothing I can do as a mentor, nothing to give her a hint, nothing to allay my fear that Clove will make good on her threat.  
  
But I don't leave her.  
  
After mandatory viewing ends, the Gamemakers keep these views running in the corner of the screen, but go to highlights from previous feasts.   
  
At around ten, Finnick comes in. He's been out with one of Snow's cronies, and before that, he put Annie and Mags on a train back to Four. Neither of them has any duties. Mags is tired, and Annie is becoming increasingly agitated. The Capitol considers them poor prospects for entertainment and "suggested" that they'd be more comfortable at home. This is, of course, not an option for Finnick. He sits down on the couch behind our table and doesn't say much. Johanna comes in from the party scene, dressed in something black and skimpy. Cecelia wanders down from her apartment. Seeder spells Chaff. Gloss and Cashmere come in to help Brutus and Enobaria. Berenice Morrow from Six manages to tear herself away from the morphling dealers to help Faraday Sykes. The escorts all go home for the night, except for Effie. Effie remains at my side. She falls asleep a little before two with her head on the table. I put my coat over her shoulders as a blanket.  
  
At three, they finally break away from the coverage (though I still maintain a hold on my screen) and play a Games-based movie. It's a historical romance about the first victor, a girl named Edith Alleman (District Seven), who supposedly fell in love with her stylist and jumped over many hurdles to live happily ever after in the Capitol with him. It's true that the barriers were lower then, and it was once possible for this to happen -- the total prohibition on District citizens moving to the Capitol was enacted between the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth Games -- but I know too much about the history of the Games themselves to believe it. For one thing, there _were_ no stylists in the first Games. They took place right after the war. The Capitol was smashed to rubble, and no one was pretending it was an amusing pageant then.   
  
The stylists didn't show up until the sixth Games, when the people of the Capitol were starting to tire of revenge. The president at the time, Antonius Clemm, wasn't tired of keeping his boot on anyone's neck, and the first Gamemaker -- an up and coming wunderkind named Coriolanus Snow -- enjoyed his job too much, so the Games were repackaged and re-marketed to the Capitol as an exciting sporting event, with only a ceremonial reminder of what they were really for.  
  
The districts were never allowed to forget, of course, even as they were forced to perform in the pageant.  
  
The movie is utter, impossible nonsense. Even without historical knowledge of the Games (which is actively discouraged -- the average Capitol citizen thinks last season's fashions are the extent of history), they must realize that a District Seven victor in the Capitol wouldn't have been invisible all these years if she were busy living happily ever after. In fact, Edith died two years after the Games from a recurring infection she picked up in the arena. It's the closest thing we victors have to a ghost story. Victors' Village in District Seven is even more isolated than it is in Twelve, and she died alone. She was found in the spring, when they came to gather her for the reaping. No one had seen her since the second Victory Tour. The winter's cold kept her partially preserved, but it had been starting to warm up. Her nose and ears and fingertips were gone, according to Blight. I reflect on this any time I consider dying in my house. It would be very easy for me not to be found. No one comes to see me.  
  
Jack Anderson swears her house is haunted. He lives next door to it, and he's seen the shadow of a woman drifting along the hallway. I suspect it's just Johanna having some fun with him.  
  
The movie finally ends around four-thirty, half an hour before dawn in the arena. They run a news show, which is largely a recap of the circumstances leading up to today's feast, though it's interspersed with entertainment gossip and a piece about a litter of kittens who can mew the national anthem in four part harmony.  
  
At five o'clock sharp, they pick up in the arena. There's a display effect of the four factions going in for the race, each in a corner of the screen. Katniss is preparing to leave. She puts on her jacket and Peeta's, and puts Rue's socks on her hands as gloves. She starts out, then remembers to go kiss Peeta. Somehow, the fact that she's risking death to get his medicine is a more convincing display. Thresh is approaching the Cornucopia from deep in the woods at the northeast end of the lake, the exact opposite direction from what they'll expect. ("I'd send him a present for being smart," Chaff says, "but I don't want to risk giving his location away.") Finch is waking up inside the Cornucopia. Clove and Cato are checking each other's weapons.  
  
They go to individual shots, and talk about what's at stake, aside from Peeta's medicine. There's a pack full of food for Finch. I hope it will wake her up and help get rid of her paranoia. Cato and Thresh both have body armor, since they've had run-ins with Mutts and with each other. Clove has nothing, even though she's the one headed for the Cornucopia, as Cato heads for Thresh's camp to intercept him. I don't know why the Gamemakers haven't sent anything for Clove, unless it's for the symmetry of both girls risking a second bloodbath for their respective boys. If that's it, they don't mention it.  
  
By the time the sun rises properly, Katniss and Clove are at the edge of the forest, looking out across the barren ground around the Cornucopia from different vantage points.   
  
A table rises up from the ground.  
  
Finch ducks out of her hiding place, grabs the backpack labeled "5," and runs before anyone else has processed what's happening. I know the tactic.  
  
Katniss makes a break for it next. Clove isn't very far behind her and starts to throw a knife, but Katniss senses her -- it can't possibly be hearing at this point -- and blocks the knife with her bow. She fires an arrow quickly. It grazes Clove's arm.  
  
While Clove looks down casually to check the minor damage, Katniss grabs the tiny pack with Peeta's medicine in it and shoves it roughly onto her arm.   
  
She's barely gotten it when Clove throws another knife.  
  
This one would have hit her in the back, but she's faster than Clove anticipates, and she's already half-turned and crouched. The knife hits her sidelong, cutting a gash across her forehead. A curtain of blood comes down over her face. There's no way she can see to aim.  
  
I stand up. My hands are buried in my hair, though I don't remember actually reaching up. Across the room, Brutus is giving me a smug grin. Enobaria isn't smug. She's watching her tribute very carefully.  
  
Clove tackles Katniss to the ground and sits down on her chest.  
  
"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve?" she asks lightly. "Still hanging on?"  
  
Katniss lies, but Clove doesn't believe her for a second. Her voice seems to echo in my head as she goes slowly through her knife collection, and chooses one to kill Katniss with. I can't think of a thing to do.  
  
Katniss continues to struggle, but Clove must have forty pounds on her, even after the time in the arena. "Forget it, District Twelve," she says. "We're going to kill you, just like we did your pathetic little ally… what was her name? The one who hopped around in trees? Rue…"  
  
Chaff taps my arm with the stump of his wrist, but I can't look away.  
  
He shoves his handheld in front of me. I don't register it at first.  
  
Then I see it.  
  
Thresh is moving in silently. He's hearing all of it.  
  
Clove is entirely focused on her task, trying to think of clever ways to hurt and disfigure Katniss before killing her. Katniss's struggles are weakening.  
  
Clove touches the blade to Katniss's lips.  
  
Thresh rushes her. He picks her up and yanks her off of Katniss, as easily as he might pick up litter. Clove, so much stronger and more formidable than Katniss, is reduced to kicking uselessly at his legs. He flips her around and flings her to the ground, stunning her and knocking all of her knives away.  
  
"What'd you do to that little girl?" he demands. "You kill her?"  
  
Clove scrambles away, terrified -- but also heading for her lost blades. "No. It wasn't me."  
  
"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her? You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"  
  
"No! No, I -- " She begins to scream for Cato.  
  
The coverage cuts to him just as he's reaching Thresh's empty camp, realizing that he's been tricked. He's too far to do any good at all.  
  
Thresh sees Clove reaching for her knife, and slams a huge rock into her head. She drops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, and begins to twitch.  
  
Then he turns on Katniss.  
  
"Don't do it," Chaff whispers. "Please."  
  
I don't answer. We both know they aren't both leaving the arena, and we both want our own tributes to come home, but there's a difference between that and them killing each other. So far, our tributes have never been responsible for one another's deaths.  
  
"What'd she mean?" Thresh asks. "About Rue being your ally?"  
  
"I -- I -- we teamed up," Katniss says. She tells him the story in gasping breaths -- the raid on the Career supply pile, finding her in Marvel's trap, killing Marvel (Thresh seems pleased at this). She even mentions the flowers, though I'm the only one to hear it properly, through my console. The Capitol has a convenient "glitch" as those particular words come out. No funeral rites in the arena. They do allow her to mention singing.  
  
Thresh listens to all of this, weighing it as she speaks.  
  
Finally, she says, "Do it fast, okay, Thresh?"  
  
Chaff and I look at each other.  
  
Thresh lowers the rock. "Just this one time, I let you go," he says. "For the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?"  
  
Katniss nods. She's a Seam girl. She understands owing.  
  
From a distance, Cato yells for Clove. Her cannon hasn't gone off yet.  
  
"You better go now, Fire Girl," Thresh says.  
  
Katniss pulls herself to her feet and runs. Thresh takes both remaining backpacks and runs off in the other direction.  
  
I realize that I'm shaking badly, and I sit down like an old man. Effie puts a hand on my neck. I look at Chaff. "I'm going to call that an alliance."  
  
He nods. "Let's hope they stay out of each other's way now."  
  
There is nothing else to say.  
  
The main coverage focuses on Cato holding Clove as she dies. It's the most human I've seen him, and I feel for him. I've been there.  
  
But I somehow doubt he'd be wasting any tears if Clove had murdered Katniss, and, indirectly, Peeta.  
  
Once her cannon goes off, he charges after Thresh. It's the best I could hope for. If he'd gone for Katniss, it would have been over.  
  
She is struggling back toward the cave, her head bleeding profusely. She stumbles into the creek and starts walking downstream, pulling off the socks she's been wearing as mittens and using them to apply pressure as well as she can. Her path becomes increasingly loopy, bouncing back and forth between the banks as she loses her balance.   
  
She finds the cave almost by luck and crashes into it.  
  
She rips the little backpack from her wrist, opens it up, and takes out a syringe. I hope it doesn't need to hit a vein.  
  
She jabs it into Peeta's arm and pushes down the plunger.  
  
Then she passes out.  
  
The Gamemakers are apparently planning to give updates on her condition, because her tracker data appears on my screen. Her vitals are surprisingly steady. A medical commentator points out that scalp cuts bleed heavily, but aren't necessarily deadly. And since he loaded Peeta's syringe personally, he believes that Peeta will be in good shape to help her in only a few hours.  
  
Thresh apparently spent part of his traveling time last night setting booby traps, and Cato sets off several. He's finally stopped by a fire Thresh sets in a ravine. Cato goes off somewhere to mourn. Thresh heads for some high ground that he hasn't explored yet. Finch eats her food too quickly and promptly throws it up, then sinks to the ground beside it, weeping.  
  
The remaining tributes, except for Katniss and Peeta, are fully separated again.  
  
I turn to Effie. "Draw up alliance papers with Thresh, okay?"  
  
"But --"  
  
"We have some money. I was saving it for Peeta's medicine. The Gamemakers provided it."  
  
"What do you need papers for?" Chaff asks.  
  
I smile. "I can get a good deal on the best cinnamon rolls in Panem."  
  
He laughs weakly. We both made it through.  
  
Unfortunately, by the time we get the alliance papers signed, the Gamemakers have forbidden gifts from one district to another. I check my sponsor boards from home and see why -- people from Twelve have been trying to send a donation to Eleven pretty much since Katniss fled into the woods.  
  
They understand owing.  
  
The Capitol doesn't understand it the same way, at least not for themselves, but they know us well enough to know that it will rankle, not being able to pay back, even in a small way, the enormous debt we now owe.  
  
I decide to circumvent the arena rules. I call Merle Undersee, and have him send someone to get Danny. While we're waiting, Merle tells me that the people aren't sure what to make of what's happening. I let him know what Katniss's vital signs are.  
  
Danny comes in, looking spooked. "Haymitch! What is it? Peeta's… he's not having a reaction to the shot, is he?"  
  
"No. Danny, he's going to be all right. This is the good stuff."  
  
Danny takes a few deep breaths and sits down in front of the telephone. "You calling during the Games is a little nerve-racking."  
  
"I'm sorry. But I wanted to thank Thresh. We can't send anything to the arena. So I wanted to send something to his family. A dozen of those cinnamon buns, if you can." Chaff looks over at me. I mouth, "Address?" and he starts scribbling.  
  
"Oh. Do you need a message in it?" Danny asks.  
  
"Just thank you. Put it on my personal tab."  
  
"Like hell," Danny says. "You can pay for the shipping. The food's on me. It's my boy he saved by letting Katniss go."  
  
I give him the address. I hope Thresh's family will understand that it's not meant to be equivalent, just symbolic.  
  
We hang up.  
  
There's nothing I can do now for Katniss or Peeta, and the sleepless night is starting to catch up with me. Effie sends me off to the lounge. I tell her to keep an eye on both of them, and send me word when either of them is ready to wake up.  
  
I'm asleep before I can even kick my shoes off. I dream about District Twelve staying up with me while I sat alone at the edge of my cliff. I walk among them like a ghost. They don't see me, but I see them. I sit down with my family and my girl for a long time. Danny joins us after a while, though he's the Danny of today, worried sick about his boy. The Undersees come as they are now as well. I start to look around, and I can no longer tell when I am. My family is gone. Instead, Katniss and Peeta are sleeping nearby, ghost-like as I am. I put a blanket over them and lay my hands on their heads.  
  
I look up.  
  
Maysilee smiles at me, then touches my shoulder and shakes me.  
  
The dream falters.  
  
Someone is shaking my shoulder.  
  
I open my eyes. It's Johanna Mason.  
  
"Are they awake?" I ask.  
  
"Nah," she says. "But Finnick's in jail. I have to go bail him out."  
  
I sit up. "What?"  
  
"It's raining in the arena. Someone caught Annie on her way into her house and asked her what they should do if the Gamemakers flooded the arena, like they did hers. She started screaming. Then the colossal idiots _told Finnick that they asked her._ It's a good thing he was unarmed. He did enough damage with his fists, apparently."  
  
"Are they going to let him out?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. They're never going to admit in public that Finnick's really a one-woman guy. They'll slap him with a fine and call it good. Effie told me to let you sleep, but I figured you'd want to know."  
  
I sigh. "You were both right. But you're more right." I check my watch. It's evening. I've slept the day away along with the kids. "Besides, it's almost mandatory viewing."  
  
She yanks me out of bed and makes a show of helping me to the table, as her bound duty to the elderly. I stick my tongue out at her.  
  
She heads out to take care of Finnick's problem.  
  
It's really pouring in the arena. They're trying to put out the fire Thresh set, as far as I can tell, but it's not going all that well.  
  
It does finally wake Peeta.  
  
He screams when he sees Katniss. Luckily, the other three tributes are a fair distance from him. He goes to her and picks her up, cradling her and begging her to wake up.  
  
"You're freezing!" he says. "She's freezing, Haymitch!"  
  
I try to put in an order for a fresh blanket, or even a little heating device, but all parachutes are delayed until the Gamemakers decide to stop the rain.  
  
Peeta improvises.  
  
His infection may be cleared up -- his vitals certainly suggest it -- but the muscles in his leg are clearly stiff and painful. He lurches around the cave, trying to find things to get her warm. There's her sheet of plastic, along with the sleeping bag, and he wraps her up in them. He takes off her wet shoes and socks and rubs her feet. He tries to give her his own socks, but they're pretty well destroyed. He throws them away.  
  
He climbs into the sleeping bag with her, promising her that she'll live, that he'll take care of her now, as she took care of him. (The people on the street are practically in ecstasy at this development.)  
  
The picture of them slides to the corner of the screen. Thresh is shown destroying the second suit of armor and putting on his own. Finch starves in a little cave, shivering in the rain. Cato sits alone in the Career camp, sharpening his spear.  
  
The anthem plays, and the day comes to an end.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**  
The rain continues to fall throughout the night. It must have long-since put out Thresh's fire, but in true Capitol fashion, the Gamemakers have apparently decided to just run with it. There's a creek in the ravine, smaller than the one Katniss and Peeta are camped at, but now swelling and overflowing its banks. The water is slowly pushing its way up toward the level ground near the Cornucopia. Throughout the night, Cato and Thresh periodically launch missiles at each other across it. Thresh makes the mistake of taunting Cato with the smashed armor pack, only to drop it into the current when Cato knocks him off balance with a hurled rock. Cato picks the pack up. I doubt he'll be able to do much with it. Then again, given that Thresh was attacking it with the very sorts of weapons it was meant to repel, maybe the damage isn't that severe.  
  
It will have to wait for morning. Cato finally falls asleep in his camp, holding on to Clove's backpack and one of her knives. Thresh contemplates the creek for a while, then seems to decide to leave it be. Finch returns to the Cornucopia. Her eyes have taken on a glazed and wild look that I've seen a few times in the arena. She's starving, yes, but more prominently, she's alone and frightened. I think she's sticking to the edges of the other tributes' circles now more as a desperate attempt to feign company than out of any thought of stealing food.  
  
I consider making a fake alliance with Faraday to send her food, maybe even encouraging a real one, but two things stop me. The first is that Finch is too far gone to understand anyone's signs.  
  
The second is that she can't live if Peeta and Katniss are going to. And she would be a distraction from the narrative.  
  
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I'm a bastard.  
  
Johanna drags Finnick back in just after midnight. Effie frets at him and agrees that it was in very poor taste to accost Annie with such an awful question. "Very poor taste" is probably the best we'll get out of Effie these days. There was a time she'd have been outraged.  
  
I sigh. The Effie she used to be is gone. The shell that's left, as shells go, is still sweet, and she's certainly doing her best to be supportive.  
  
I decide to go back to sleep properly, so I'll be alert if anything happens tomorrow.  
  
Effie wakes me up just before dawn. She assures me that nothing is going on yet -- Peeta is just trying to keep Katniss warm in the rain. "But you should clean up," she says. "With things so slow, the press is bound to be looking for commentary."  
  
I nod. "Yeah. I could use some fresh clothes."  
  
"I went back to the apartment and got you a couple of suits to choose from," she says. "I'd go with the dark red jacket. You look very dapper in it." She examines my hair and moves a few curls around. "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to see a barber, either. Not too much off, but you do need a decent shave, and your skin is a wreck."  
  
I rub my face. She's right, but I don't want to waste time with a barber who will inevitably decide I need a dozen more tweaks. "I'll shave myself. When they put me on television, they always have someone to make me up for the lights, anyway."  
  
She rolls her eyes and hands me a bottle of moisturizer. "At least put some of this on after you shave, all right?"  
  
I nod.  
  
She doesn't leave immediately. Instead, she gives me a fond smile and says, "You're doing very well this year, Haymitch. I was afraid when they wouldn't give you the pills…"  
  
I hold up my hand. "Let's not start me thinking about it, okay? I haven't had time so far."  
  
She nods and leaves.  
  
By the time I'm finished getting dolled up for the day, Katniss has finally woken up. She's apparently told Peeta about what happened, because they're talking about debts. When I get to the table, she's saying, "…I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then. Why did you, anyway?"  
  
"What did she say?" I ask Chaff.  
  
"Something about bread. No details."  
  
"Why?" Peeta echoes. "You know why." Whatever he's trying to say, she's clearly baffled about. He looks at her in disbelief. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing."  
  
"Haymitch?" she says. "What's he got to do with it?"  
  
I'm a little baffled on this count myself. I don't remember telling Peeta that she'd be hard to convince about anything. Maybe I did during the four hours we chatted and pretended I had something to do in preparing him for Caesar's interview, but if so, I've completely blanked on it. I suspect he's just trying to keep me in the narrative for some reason of his own.  
  
Peeta doesn't help. "Nothing," he says. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?"  
  
It's the first misstep Peeta's made, and it's completely understandable if Katniss didn't tell him the whole story, or glossed over the more emotional aspects of it, which she's prone to do. This time, she manages to fix it. "I think we would like Thresh," she says, and I wonder if she even notices the plural. "I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve."  
  
"Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," Peeta says grimly.  
  
Chaff and I don't really look at each other during this.  
  
The whole conversation is obviously as bad for Katniss as it is for us, and she turns away from it, pretending to be upset just because she wants to go home. Peeta tells her to go to sleep and dream of home. He name-checks me again, to thank me (along with Katniss) for seeing to it that he's well-rested. Then she goes back to sleep.  
  
Peeta stays beside her for a while, stroking her forehead and watching her with great concern. He finally gets up and looks for a dry part of the cave. There really isn't one.  
  
"I guess a fire would be a bad idea anyway," he says aloud, looking directly into one of the hidden cameras. "Even if I could build one when it's this wet. She's so cold. Come on, Haymitch. Isn't there anything?"  
  
I wonder if he's bringing me into the narrative because he thinks I've forgotten about them somehow. I guess I could excuse it if he did think that, given how little I've sent for him. But the truth is, there's nothing on the supply list to warm Katniss up. I finally find some self-warming bandages in the first aid section and send him some at around ten in the morning. They look exactly like the ones in their kit. There's enough of the material for her head and his leg.  
  
He wraps her head and her feet in them.  
  
Unfortunately, the charge that keeps them warm isn't permanent, and she starts shivering again after about twenty minutes. He smiles and says, "Thanks, I think it helped for a while." He rolls up the bandage around her feet and puts it in the kit. The other one, he leaves alone. It's just a bandage now, but she needs one of those.  
  
At lunch, I'm called out to do a news show. I get a full third of the time (ten minutes) to talk about how well they take care of each other. The host, Milonia Beers, asks rapturous questions about how it must be to have people help each other out. Apparently, the romance has set the Capitol off on another of its wistful pipe dreams about the simple life of the districts. You can't quite set a watch by these moods, but they're pretty frequent. "That's the way it is in District Twelve, isn't it?" she asks.  
  
I consider playing up my bumpkin accent and turning it into part of the show, but I don't do it, because they stayed up with Katniss. They stayed up with me. The Capitol may be having a fantasy, but there is also a reality. I say, "There are a lot of decent folk there."  
  
"And what could it teach us here?"  
  
"I don't think it's anything to teach," I tell her. "It's a human thing. And over the years, I've seen plenty of folks in the Capitol reaching out to help." I don't mention that these are mostly in the various rebel circles, of course. There _are_ others. Effie. Mimi. The Daughters. Most of my sponsors, actually. I think what bothers me most about these periodic fads is that they seem more of a fashion than a lifestyle, and they ignore the people for whom it really _is_ a way of life. Those people -- like the people in Twelve -- don't run around bragging about it. It's just the way they are.  
  
When I leave the studio, I look carefully at the people on the street. The ones who were watching live this morning are quite enamored of Twelve, since Katniss talked about wanting to go home. I'm mobbed by people wearing their hair in the new "natural" style, many of them wearing cosmetically applied coal dust. They want to know how they can be more "authentic."  
  
I can't think how they could be _less_ authentic, but it seems the better part of valor not to say so.  
  
"Could you sing us a song from Twelve?" someone calls out.  
  
"Oh, no. You don't want to hear me sing. I'll see if someone at home will do it on television, how's that?"  
  
This gets a cheer.  
  
People want to know what's really worn in Twelve (whatever's in one piece), what we eat (not much -- but I promise them recipes), and especially, what the marriage customs are. Do people stay together forever? Will Katniss and Peeta, if they make it home? Finally, a little boy asks for a story, which is a question I can reasonably answer. I sit down on the back of a park bench, with a crowd gathered around me. It's mostly kids, though a few parents are with them. I tell the old story of John Henry, which I imagine sounds more like a District Six story -- it's about laying down a railroad track -- and then move on to some of the ghost stories from the mines. I keep my handheld in view, but mostly all I see is Peeta exercising to stretch out his bad leg. I've just settled in for a few "Jack" stories that Daddy used to tell when I spot Effie at the back of the crowd. She taps her wrist.  
  
"Well," I say, "it seems that Jack outstayed his time. Princess Timewell came to fly him right back off to the glass house. I bet you can find some of the stories up in the library."  
  
There's some disappointment, and it takes me a few minutes to get through the crowd to Effie because they want my autograph for the first time in ages. When I reach Effie, she says, "Princess Timewell?"  
  
I shrug.  
  
When we get back to the Viewing Center, I find out that some of it made the local broadcast. Johanna snorts. "Way to package up your district culture for sale."  
  
"I'll sell it at a bargain if it keeps them on my side," I say.  
  
Johanna accepts this as a complete truth, instead of the quasi-lie that it really is. I don't know if she'd quite get that I was enjoying myself.  
  
"What's been going on?" I ask Seeder.  
  
She nods at the screen. "The boys have been throwing things at each other. Thresh let the river take him downstream, but the fool of a boy is looking for a way back across, so he can get to Cato."  
  
"What about the armor?"  
  
"It's cracked in a few places, but Cato's got it. They can batter each other for ever like this." She hisses in distaste. "They sent your boy medicine, and the girl from Five got food. Useful things. This armor for both of them doesn't do anything except make the fights take longer."  
  
I don't bother pointing out that the Gamemakers will undoubtedly consider this a great advantage.  
  
The rain is still going strong in the arena. Peeta is trying to shore up the cave a little bit. He's using the broth pot as a drip catcher, and he's repositioned the plastic sheet to get the water off of the area where they sleep, but there's not a lot to be done. Like the cave Finnick hid in, it has plenty of air shafts to the surface. They help provide at least some natural light for the cameras, and I suspect the Gamemakers use them to send in nanobots to get better angles when the kids aren't looking. I've never caught them at this, but I feel like it has to be true.  
  
If anything, it's raining even harder when Peeta finally wakes Katniss up, just a few minutes after mandatory viewing starts. I don't know if it's coincidence, or if he has a good sense of the time.  
  
He wants to eat, but, after inhaling a lot of their food yesterday, he's decided to wait for her to split what's left evenly. Katniss is clearly feeling better, since she decides that they'll hunt tomorrow. She reminisces fondly about warm bread from District Eleven.  
  
They get into possibly the most boring conversation I've heard in the arena short of Career strategy sessions, this one about where Thresh went, and -- incredibly -- how tall the grass is. Eventually, it comes back to hunger. There's a reason the Games are called what they are: both kids are clearly hungry. Neither is starving, of course. They've been eating more steadily than some Seam families eat. But they're also both pretty used to regular meals.  
  
"Maybe there's a bread bush in that field," Katniss gripes. "Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games."  
  
Peeta shrugs. "Either that, or he's got very generous sponsors. I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread." He looks straight at another one of the cameras. I'm not going to reward that anymore.  
  
There are a few bawdy jokes in the Viewing Center about just what would earn them some bread, all of them made by former tributes who _know_ better. Meanwhile, Katniss seems to be floundering. She tries to tease Peeta about having been drugged to get his medicine, but he is clearly not amused, and wants to make utterly sure that she knows she did something wrong. That's fine. It probably was -- it certainly wasn't anything done with his consent. On the other hand, he's alive to complain about it, so I'm morally comfortable with the decision.  
  
Katniss is trying her hardest to turn the subject back to romance, since she's clearly figured out that it's selling. Unfortunately, she's as awkward at pretending as she was during interview practice.  
  
"Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta," she says stiffly. "Did you ever think of that? Maybe you're not the only one who--"  
  
She stops very suddenly, her face going rather blank. I frown.  
  
"… the only one who worries about… what it would be like if…"  
  
"What's wrong with her?" Effie says.  
  
I'm not completely sure, but I suspect that somewhere in the middle of her performance, she struck truth, and she isn't sure what to do with it… or if she wants to share it. I remember her saying that they couldn't have her past. I doubt she wants the world to have her present, either.  
  
"If what, Katniss?" Peeta asks.  
  
She turns up her nose and pretends to tease him. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," she lies. I put my head in my hand.  
  
Peeta saves it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says.  
  
He kisses her.  
  
Unlike the other kisses, this one is clearly and definitively real. Katniss isn't a good enough actress to pull it off otherwise. It goes on for a long time, and I'm sure the people on the street are eating it up. When it finally stops, Peeta just mutters something about her head bleeding again, and suggests turning in for the night. He also starts talking about her socks, and putting on his coat, and keeping warm inside rather than trying to keep a watch in the rain. It's a kind of nervous prattle that surprises me.  
  
I think he may actually be daring to believe it.  
  
I believe it, too, though I expect Katniss will take a long time to come around to it. She doesn't see herself as a person who could fall in love. Thinking about the way Ruth fell to pieces after Glen died, I guess she probably just assumes it would mean weakness.  
  
"Well, we're not going to need the analysts for that one!" Claudius Templesmith says, obviously amused as they cut back to the studio. "I think everyone can see for themselves!"  
  
This is, of course, followed by twenty minutes of analysis and recaps from several angles. Finnick comes in from a date in the middle of this. There are rope burns on his wrists that I don't ask about. He watches for a minute, then looks at me and says, "I hope you know what you're doing with this show."  
  
I nod. "As long as they're both alive at the end of it, I do. I think they'll be all right."  
  
He watches for a while, uncharacteristically sullen -- I'm guessing that after his exploits, Snow made him do something particularly vile -- then says, "Whatever you need for them, I'll play along."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
He grins faintly. "Peachy. You?"  
  
"Fine as paint. And after I get them through, I want to get you out."  
  
"I feel freer already." He starts to leave, then looks over his shoulder. "In case it's not clear, I wasn't being sarcastic."  
  
He walks over to the lounge. He has no reason at all to stay here, but he does. He sends Effie out (she's been taking a nap), and, sometime in the middle of the night, comes out to spell me. A little rest seems to have turned his mood around, and he's joking freely about a sleepy Katniss suggesting that she and Peeta will sleep more comfortably in trees tomorrow night.  
  
I go to bed.  
  
There's no reason for anyone to wake me early. It's still raining in the arena. Katniss and Peeta are napping now and then, and occasionally having dull conversations about keeping warm and getting food. I need them to open up. If I can get them to actually express something, I'll send them a real feast.  
  
It doesn’t seem to be in the offing.  
  
The Capitol coverage is filler material. They re-cap the Games mostly from Peeta's perspective, complimenting his fine knife work in the murder of Kersey Green of District Eight. I hope this doesn't make the highlight reel. They interview fans, who are bored with the rain. They interview beauticians, who are extremely busy creating natural looks for Capitol girls. It's mind-numbing, and it's doing nothing for my mood. I want a drink. I snap at everyone in sight. Effie has to wield my old district token at me to get me to shut up.  
  
What little is happening in the arena is happening near the ravine, which has filled up and become a raging river for some distance. The ongoing flooding has forced Finch from a shelter. She wanders around, dazed, and tries to catch a fish, but the current is too much for her. She starts tailing Thresh, just far enough away that he never gets a glimpse of her. He is also forced out of a shelter he's made when the ground becomes too muddy to hold the stakes. Cato is struggling to maintain his hold in the flatlands near the lake, but the whole area is becoming a swamp. From the looks of it, the Gamemakers mean to force the three of them into combat at the Cornucopia.  
  
"They want Thresh to kill the girl," I say.  
  
Chaff looks at me. "What?"  
  
"To make up for not killing Katniss."  
  
He swears under his breath.  
  
If so, nothing seems to happen on that front during the daylight hours, and when mandatory viewing starts, the entire plot seems to be three wet kids wandering around each other in circles, and two cold kids shivering in each other's arms and talking about the weather.  
  
I could send them a basket just so they'd talk about food. I've already had the supply craft pack one, with Katniss's stew and some rolls that Peeta liked during training. But I need them back on topic.  
  
I guess if they don't come through in the next fifteen minutes or so, I'll send it anyway, because they're too cold and tired to get particularly romantic, and at least food would be something new to talk about.  
  
Katniss is obviously turning this over in her head, though. Like she did when I didn't send her water. She knows there's something she should be doing, and she finally manages to find a path to it. She asks Peeta when his crush started.  
  
It's the best thing she could have done. She's better than he is at knowing when I need her to do something, but he's the one who can really make the story shine. Almost as soon as he starts talking about their first day of school, the show warms up.  
  
Of course, I imagine things are a little chilly back in Twelve, given that he starts the festivities by telling her that Danny walked him to school and pointed her out as Ruth's child, and saying that he once wanted to marry Ruth. He must realize that the whole thing is strange, because he segues it into the stories of Glen's singing voice, which fascinated him so much that he couldn't wait to hear Katniss sing, and wasn't disappointed. Supposedly, he hasn't maintained a long term interest in any other girl since.  
  
By the time he's finished, Katniss is sitting back and staring at him in awe. "You have a remarkable memory," she says.  
  
"I remember everything about you," he says. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."  
  
"I am now."  
  
"Well, I don't have much competition here," Peeta jokes, and it is the perfect opportunity for her to say something romantic, something the Capitol can quote for days.  
  
"Say it," I whisper.  
  
And, as if she can hear me, she does: "You don't have much competition anywhere."  
  
I don't even wait for the kiss. I just order them to drop a picnic basket.  
  
At this point, I'm inundated with calls for lyrics and music to the valley song, a little ditty about a miner and his daughter that fathers with daughters love to sing, or so I've heard. I know the beginning of it goes, "In the deep, deep valley - In the tall, tall grass - lived a broad-shouldered miner - And his wee little lass." After that, I'm lost.  
  
I spend most of their conversation on the phone with Merle, getting the words. It only takes about three minutes, but I miss most of what they say to each other. The basic gist of the song is that the miner finds a room full of jewels underground, but it's not as valuable as his little girl. I feel that, even without a little girl of my own to compare it to, I can still vouch for the worthlessness of money after a certain point, if there's no one to spend it on.  
  
I send the words to the Gamemakers. No one in Twelve has written down the music, but I guess the Capitol will make up its own tune anyway.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**  
When I finish, Katniss has Peeta talking about how his parents feel about him liking a Seam girl. Personally, I doubt that Danny would mind much, though this particular girl -- Ruth and Glen's firstborn -- is probably an awkward thought for him. Mir, on the other hand, is probably hyperventilating at the very thought of a gray-eyed girl eating at her table.  
  
"Anyway," Peeta says, "if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam. You'll be a girl from Victors' Village."  
  
Katniss makes a face. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!"  
  
Chaff is just turning to me to make a joke about this, probably a quip about what a lousy neighbor I'll make, when he suddenly stands up and yells, "No!"  
  
I look at the main screen.  
  
Coverage has suddenly cut away from Katniss and Peeta and their domestic comedy in the cave, and returned to the Hunger Games.  
  
The rain has turned the field around the Cornucopia into a sea of mud, and the swollen creek is overflowing the sides of the ravine, and the lake is well outside of its banks. Finch is crawling around in circles in the mud, trying to make her confused way to the Cornucopia, and not doing well at all. Thresh, who's been looking for high ground for an hour or so (boring Chaff to tears) has turned to set his sights on the forest instead, where the rain seems to be draining better.  
  
What he doesn't see -- and neither does Chaff, because for once, Brutus hasn't been bragging; we should have been suspicious -- is that Cato has been using the sound of the driving rain to mask his own approach. Dressed in his cracked armor, he's used the grass and the mud for cover, and he emerges now from the mud, a twisted, capering image of Peeta's emergence from under the rock. He rises up with a war cry and attacks Thresh from behind.  
  
Thresh responds quickly, but they're locked into a fight now, and after twenty-four years, I understand the Games well enough to know that this isn't one of their minor skirmishes. This is going to end with one of them dead. They're both in armor, so the machete that Thresh carries and the sword in Cato's hands only serve as prods. The real goal is the raging water. The first to be pushed in will die, especially if the other has done any kind of damage first.  
  
"This is it," Cato says, thrusting at him with the sword. "You die now."  
  
Thresh shoves him back.  
  
Neither of the boys has noticed Finch, and I'm not sure she's aware of either of them as she crawls through the mud. She groans.  
  
Thresh picks it up somehow and looks over his shoulder. Cato strikes him with the flat of the sword, knocking him down. Thresh is able to block the flurry of blows, even able to knock Cato down with a blow to the knees, but neither of them can get a look on the other.  
  
Cato skids backward, directly into the path of one of Finch's wild loops. He raises his sword at her.  
  
Thresh runs at him and knocks him into the mud. "Let her go. She's as good as dead. You don't need to waste your time on her."  
  
Finch looks up, fully conscious of her companions for the first time. She stares at Thresh with wide eyes.  
  
Cato laughs. "You in this to win, or save skinny little girls?" He raises his sword at Finch.  
  
Thresh moves in to block it. "Oh, yeah. Big man, killing a dying girl."  
  
Seeder gasps, reading Cato's move just a second before Chaff and I do.  
  
He waits until Thresh is fully committed to the block, inside the radius of the swing. Then, instead of turning the sword on him, he thrusts backwards with the hilt, catching Thresh in his unprotected face. Even over the rain, the arena microphones catch an unspeakable crunching sound.  
  
Thresh's forehead caves in and he falls.  
  
Cato pushes him into the raging water. "That's for Clove," he says. "Maybe you should have saved her, too."  
  
The cannon goes off.  
  
Cato has entirely forgotten about Finch. He's standing at the edge of the water, glaring after Thresh's body with undisguised hate. Finch gets to her feet and launches herself at Cato, a guided missile. She'd have no chance if he fought her, but she isn't out for a fight.  
  
She shoves him over the edge and into the water. He disappears into the current.  
  
She falls back to her knees and begins to retch, moaning piteously to the sky. She hasn't played their game so far, not until now, and she can't handle it. I'm reminded forcibly of Annie Cresta, and I know that Finnick will be as well.  
  
The cameras remain lovingly on her as her mind comes apart on national television.  
  
"I need to call home," Chaff says dully.  
  
I put a hand on his shoulder, which he acknowledges with a nod, then he gets up and goes to the booths.  
  
It's obvious that Finch believes that she's killed Cato, but the Gamemakers know better. They establish contact with his tracker, and show him climbing out of the water on the far side, coughing and dazed, even as Finch rolls over and begins to crawl toward the woods, batting uselessly at her ears.  
  
Chaff comes back a few minutes later. I tap Effie's shoulder to watch the phones, and Seeder and I lead him over to the lounge. He orders a large brandy.  
  
"The family's under guard," he says. "His grandmother and his sister. The parents are dead."  
  
"What are they pretending to guard them from?"  
  
He laughs without any humor at all. "Supposedly, the people are up in arms about Thresh 'throwing away' a victory." He looks up at one of the televisions on the wall, where Peacekeepers in Eleven are now extolling Thresh's good citizenship. "Apparently, they've been upset about that since about the time Rue died. There are orchards burning. Maybe some cotton fields." He throws his half full glass into the wall.   
  
It doesn't shatter. It thuds to the floor without much drama. The brandy is running down the table onto my skin, and the smell is driving me crazy. I want to lick my hands. I don't. Instead, I think about the string bracelet. I pull on my sleeve to tighten it around my wrist. "That's a lot of anger," I say.  
  
"Yeah, for all the good it'll do. No one in the Capitol is going hungry for it, I promise. It's us who'll starve this winter. Damn _girl_ ," he mutters without explanation.  
  
"How are they?" Seeder asks. "Dayflower and Winnow, I mean."  
  
"As well as you can expect," Chaff says. "As well as they ever are. At least they could see that he kept his mind right up to the end, even though he was alone the whole time. He kept his wits." He presses the heel of his remaining hand against his forehead, and I morbidly think of Cato's sword hilt. "I don't know how many more years of this I can take."  
  
Above him, on the screen, I see Peeta looking up at the sky, reading the night's news. While Chaff calls for a fresh drink, he goes inside and tells Katniss. She goes to the back of the cave to mourn. I'll have to ask Effie what the commentators are claiming this is about -- they won't allow it to be what it clearly is -- but she's in no danger right now, and I have more important responsibilities. I sit with my old friends in the night-darkened lounge, as they have always sat with me, and give them what strength I have. We don't talk much.   
  
Finnick comes down to join us just before eleven, and Johanna comes a few minutes later. Beetee is held up in a patent meeting.  
  
Around midnight, Chaff decides that he's had enough of the Viewing Center for the year. Seeder takes him back to the Training Center apartments.  
  
"It's easier when it's at the Cornucopia," Johanna says tentatively. "When you haven't had a chance to start, you know… thinking they might make it."  
  
I shake my head. "No, it's not."  
  
She doesn't push it.  
  
Finnick orders up some hot chocolate and has the Capitol Dreams runners clear away the bottles and glasses Chaff left. He doesn't comment on this.  
  
"Were you watching your feed at all?" he asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your feed. I tuned to it." He rolls his eyes. "Annie likes the story."  
  
"Annie, nothing," Jo says. "You can't wait to see if they'll live happily ever after."  
  
"But I know better. I like them, though."  
  
I frown. "Did something happen? It looked like they were just talking."  
  
"They were." He smiles. "As it happens, they were talking about _you_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's true. They had a whole conversation about who you hate less."  
  
"Oo, _we've_ had that conversation," Jo says, picking up on a chance to turn the topic. "Personally, I think you hate me less than Finnick, because I don't remind you of your lost youth and beauty."  
  
"You just did remind me of it, Jo. _Again._ "  
  
"Oops." She grins broadly.  
  
I smile back at her. I can still see the hilt of Cato's sword going into Thresh's forehead, and hear Chaff wondering how many more years he can do this, but life is still going on here. And in the arena, apparently -- Katniss and Peeta are thinking about life on the other side of the Games. That's important.  
  
"Peeta mentioned something about picnics and sitting around the fire telling old Hunger Games stories. Katniss seems to think you won't want her around for such good times."  
  
"This was an actual topic of conversation? I'm going to send a parachute to take that picnic basket back. No one's going to be interested in _that_."  
  
"They're not going to re-run it, anyway," Finnick says. "Given that they segued from that into figuring out that you won by outsmarting the Gamemakers." He shrugs. "Well, Peeta said you outsmarted the others, but it's pretty clear that they both know who's really getting outsmarted."  
  
"What do you mean, 'figuring out'?" Jo asks. "Don't you ever… I don't know, go to the schools and talk about it? Jack and Blight and I do that. Plus, re-runs."  
  
"No one at the school wants me there, and they don't re-run my Games."  
  
She frowns. "You know, I never thought about that. I never _have_ seen yours."  
  
"You watch other people's?"  
  
"I don't sleep much. Never did. I'd watch whatever they had on. How _did_ you win?"  
  
"Bled out slower than the girl from One," I say.  
  
Finnick shakes his head. "He used the forcefield on the arena as a weapon."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. I watched the highlight reel at Mags's a few times -- worst editing ever; you must have really annoyed them -- but I've picked up a bunch of other things over my years as an Abernathy groupie. He was telling stories, talking philosophy…"  
  
"Not fascinated," Jo says.  
  
"That's because you're hard-hearted." He sticks his tongue out at her. "Anyway, I heard he even jammed up their mutt delivery systems. Not that it would have made the reel."  
  
I wonder briefly where he heard about that, but I guess it could be anywhere. Chaff, maybe, or Plutarch. More likely, Mags. She'd have been here watching. I guess I never really thought about that. She's never mentioned it.  
  
"Do we have to talk about this?" I ask.  
  
"Do you ever talk about it?" Finnick is still smiling, but a serious look has started to creep into his eyes. "You should. If you don't want to tell us, you should tell them when we get them out. They've earned it, and you need to do it."  
  
"Is victor therapy your new talent?" I ask.  
  
He could take it badly -- as some kind of a slur on Annie, which would put me in the direct sights of the victor with the most kills in Games history -- but he doesn't. Instead, he gives his stage grin and says, "Hey, you have to admit… it would be a lucrative business."  
  
Johanna throws an olive at him, and serious talk is done for the evening.   
  
Effie and I each get a couple of hours of sleep, but this close to the end, with only Cato and Finch left on the field, neither of us can stay under for very long. We're both up with the sun, groggily drinking coffee when the kids wake up in the cave. At some point during the night, the rain stopped, and the sun is out. Katniss means to go hunting, so they finish up everything that they have. Katniss tries to scrape the last of the stew with her fork, then gives up and goes for it with her fingers. Effie winces.  
  
On screen, Katniss says, "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."  
  
Effie is surprised into a brief, high-pitched laugh. "Haymitch, she said my name."  
  
"Hey, Effie!" Peeta calls. "Watch this!" He picks up his plate and licks it enthusiastically clean. Effie seems to be caught between offense and laughter. She finally decides on laughter when he blows a kiss (straight at a camera; he _must_ have found them all by now) and calls out, "Effie! We miss you!"  
  
Katniss makes a half-hearted effort to get him to stop joking around, but neither of them stops laughing. Neither does Effie. Her smile is broad and real. She keeps touching it, like she's not sure what it is. I look at the kids laughing in the cave, and at Effie smiling here, and I can't put a name to what I feel. Something just clicks inside me, and the world feels just a little bit different than it did a few minutes ago, even though nothing at all has changed.  
  
The kids get the giggling under control as they go out to hunt. I don't know much about hunting, and I'm not sure why Katniss seems to be getting increasingly irritated. I'm not worried about them. Finch is nearby (coverage cuts to her now and then, muttering "Killer" under her breath), but she doesn't have the strength to take on a butterfly mutt right now. I think she's hovering nearby for company as much as anything, and possibly to steal their food. She's not a real threat. Cato is on the far side of the lake, rummaging through Thresh's remaining belongings.  
  
I sleep with my head on the table for an hour or so, and when Effie wakes me up, they've split up for a while, apparently because Peeta walks too loudly. I'd hate to think what she'd think of _my_ tread in the woods. She has him digging up roots while she's shooting small game. She's good -- she's got a couple of rabbits already, and shoots a squirrel as I wake up. Meanwhile, Peeta has found a berry bush by the stream. Claudius informs us that he'd best not snack, because they're nightlock berries, deeply toxic, but I'm not worried. Peeta has been carefully piling things up for them to eat together, and Katniss will know better. He drops a handful on the plastic sheet, then goes back for more.  
  
I expect the morning coverage to follow him, since not much more interesting is going on, but instead, they remain at the picnic, and hear Faraday Sykes swear.  
  
Finch, who's kept up a parallel track to them, obviously walking more quietly than Peeta, emerges from the bushes. There's a hunk of cheese that Katniss must have saved this morning, and she grabs it and gulps it down. I expect her to throw up again, it's so fast.  
  
She doesn't. But she does stand there in the sunlight, swaying. If Peeta turns around or Katniss gets back to the camp, she'll be in easy sight.  
  
Neither of those things happen.  
  
Instead, Finch just increases her swaying. I look at her face. It's been blank and distant for days, but I think, just for a moment, that I see a light in her eyes.  
  
She mutters, "Killer, killer…" and reaches down, grabbing a handful of nightlock berries. She disappears back into the woods.  
  
Further away, Katniss decides that she's had enough, and gives some kind of two note mockingjay call, which Effie says she and Peeta agreed on as a signal, but he doesn't answer. I doubt he can hear over the stream.  
  
Katniss listens, her eyes going wide as the minutes pass, then starts to run back to camp. When she gets there, she starts berating Peeta out of sheer panic.  
  
All of this is irrelevant, and the Gamemakers know it. They don't focus on it. On the main broadcast, I doubt anyone is even paying attention to Katniss's tirade.  
  
The sole focus is on Finch. Claudius reminds the audience that she's skipped nightlock berries before, but must now be confused by hunger and infection, and by seeing Peeta picking them.  
  
I don't think she's confused at all.  
  
The first berry she tries to eat doesn't make it to her mouth. Her hand betrays her, jamming it against her upper lip. She stares blindly at the juice now dripping from her fingers.   
  
Then she forces her hand to her face and shoves the entire fistful of berries into her mouth.  
  
She chews.  
  
She hasn't even swallowed all of them when she falls to the ground, thrashing. The main broadcast skips this, just showing her drop before cutting to a few minutes on the toxicity of nightlock. There are few enough cameras left now, though, that I can spot her feed. She's convulsing in pain, clawing at her throat.  
  
Then she stops.  
  
The cannon goes off.  
  
Katniss and Peeta stop fighting and watch as the hovercraft plucks Finch's body from the woods.  
  
Peeta sees how near it is, and tries to shove Katniss to a tree, to escape an immediate threat from Cato, but of course, Cato is nowhere near them.  
  
"No, Peeta," Katniss says. "She's your kill, not Cato's."  
  
He looks confused. "What? I haven't seen her since the first day. How could I have killed her?"  
  
It takes Katniss a little while to explain, and Peeta looks increasingly horrified as she does. Brutus is visibly disgusted with this display.  
  
Peeta starts to throw the rest of the berries away, but Katniss stops him. Brutus's smile is wiped off his face when she says that she plans to try and trick Cato into eating them. He starts thumbing through the supply book (now badly mangled), probably trying to find a way to warn his tribute.  
  
Nothing else happens that day.  
  
Katniss and Peeta have lunch, even building a fire to do it, but Cato doesn't take the bait. Peeta talks her into going back to the cave, and they begin another long and tedious trek through the woods.  
  
I sit back.  
  
"We almost have them," Effie says. "Haymitch, we really almost have them."  
  
I nod.  
  
"I need to set up appearances for you," she says. "People will want to see you after the Games."  
  
"If they get through there, they'll need me -- "  
  
"To watch them in recovery?" She shakes her head. "Haymitch, you'll need to be out there, keeping people up on things. The people love them. They'll want to know everything."  
  
"Let's wait. Let's not jinx it."  
  
She doesn't like it, but she doesn't push it. She may be the only escort in the Capitol who takes seriously the official idea that the mentor is the boss of the team. It's ironic, since she's also the one I'd trust most to make the right decisions for the team, even now.  
  
I go to the lounge to get some supper while the kids continue their walk. I'm contemplating allowing myself a drink. I know better, but the idea is in my head, and I can still catch the ghost smell of Chaff's brandy from where it spilled on my hand. Just one. Maybe two. They're most likely safe for the day, since the Gamemakers have a death to broadcast. I could --  
  
Something like a small artillery tank slams into me, shoving me away from the table and into the wall.  
  
Brutus pins me easily. It's been a long time since I've needed to get away from anyone, and I'm out of practice. And surprised. "What the --?"  
  
"A trap to poison my tribute? They're going two against one, playing out this farce for sponsors, and they're still cheating?"  
  
I manage to get my footing, and shove him off of me. "Yeah. Cheating in the Hunger Games. You can't cheat in the Games, Brutus. You know that."  
  
"I train my tributes to fight up front. To make it a fair match."  
  
"A fair match against kids who haven't been training for years?"  
  
"That's not our fault. There's nothing stopping you from training them."  
  
"Except it's illegal to train for the Games."  
  
"And you care about _legal_." He snorts. "It's just adding a few things to normal physical training. Your boy supposedly wrestles, though I don't believe it. He probably just cuddles people until they're so disgusted with him that they concede."  
  
"What's your point?"  
  
"My point is, if you can teach them to wrestle, you teach them to throw a spear or fight with a sword. It's just a sport. So if the other districts don't bother, that's not my responsibility, or my tributes'. They fight in the open, and if the others can't keep up, that's their fault. Or their mentors'."  
  
"A sport," I repeat, dumbfounded. "You really believe that, don't you?"  
  
"You get them to sneak around. Play games behind the scenes. Manipulate the audience." He sneers. "At least I don't treat it like a _show_. I don't count on my tributes being _actors_. Even if they win, they haven't really won anything."  
  
"They'll be alive," I say, pulling away. I grab a sandwich from the table. I don't really want it anymore, but I don't want Brutus thinking he can stop me from doing anything, either.  
  
"That's all that matters to you, isn't it? Living. You were a coward in your arena, and you're still a coward."  
  
I grab a knife from the table and shove Brutus backward, pinning him as easily as he pinned me. I press the knife against his throat. "I'm saving their lives, you idiot. I'd save Cato's if I could. I'd even save yours if I ever had a reason to."  
  
"I wouldn't ask you to. And I don't think you're planning a life-saving surgery with that knife."  
  
I look at it, disgusted, and throw it away. "You're not worth it," I tell him.  
  
I walk away.  
  
Faraday Sykes is cleaning up the District Five station when I get back out. She shrugs and rolls her eyes. I have no idea what she's trying to say. I think she might be a rebel, in her own way, and she hates the Games, but I've never totally understood her.  
  
Effie is fielding a phone call at our table. At this point, the sponsors won't be able to do much. The Gamemakers will undoubtedly force a battle soon, and all the supplies in the world won't help with it. But I'll need their goodwill after the Games.  
  
Katniss and Peeta get back to their cave around sunset. Peeta is obviously exhausted from the day, and goes to sleep. I wonder if it's entirely exhaustion, or if he's thinking about Finch, who died because he didn't identify berries very well, or Kersey, who begged him to slit her throat. He's said nothing about either death, but I imagine that they weigh on him.  
  
After he drifts off to sleep, Katniss watches him fondly for a while, running her fingers through his hair. She kisses his forehead. Of course it's aired live, but I don't think she does it for the camera. She's not that good.  
  
She keeps a watch through the night, and wakes Peeta at dawn. He makes her sleep for several hours as well.  
  
Cato also sleeps. Somewhere in the bowels of the arena, the Gamemakers turn off the water supply.  
  
In the afternoon, Brutus and I are called to the studio for an interview, which he spends ridiculing Peeta and suggesting that Katniss ought to cut him loose, or Cato will kill both of them.  
  
I manage not to grab a knife again, but it's a close thing. I warn him that one of these days, he's going to underestimate the wrong person. He laughs.  
  
When I get back to the Viewing Center, Katniss is waking up. She and Peeta both seem to understand the truth.  
  
The Games are almost over.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventy-fourth Games come to their conclusion.

When they leave the cave -- Katniss touches the rock almost nostalgically -- it doesn't take them long to realize that the Gamemakers are forcing their hands. The stream they've been depending on is bone dry, and they realize that the only place to find water is the lake, where they know Cato has been camping.   
  
Peeta puts his arms around Katniss and holds her. It's not the embrace of lovers, star-crossed or otherwise, but of real friends, about to face danger together.   
  
"Two against one," Peeta says. "Should be a piece of cake." He doesn’t make much effort at putting bravado in the canned line -- in effect, pointing out that it's a canned line, which draws attention to how serious the situation really is, without him actually showing fear. He's good.  
  
Katniss nods. "Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol."  
  
"You bet it will."  
  
They hold onto each other for a very long time.  
  
As they begin their final walk through the arena, discovering more dried-up water sources, the broadcast switches briefly to the Districts. In Two, an angry looking crowd is gathering, all with signs bearing Cato's face. Clove's mother is giving a speech to whip them into a frenzy.  
  
In Twelve, which I caught a brief glimpse of on the live screen at Claudius's studio, the people are together, and, though the narration doesn't draw attention to it, I can see that they've been sharing food. There's a large table near the bakery, with a few bits of bread left on it, and a giant pot of what I suspect is soup, since it's manned by Greasy Sae. Normally, a peacekeeper would step in to stop this flagrant display of mutual generosity (they don't like it when we try to help each other; all gifts must be controlled by the Capitol), but this isn't a normal time. A few of the Peacekeepers actually seem to be in the crowd, sharing in it. There are a few I can think of who'd probably sneak in a dish to pass. There may be some people who can live in a place for years and never become a part of it, but they're very rare in my experience. I think that's why the government likes to randomly transfer its people at regular intervals. The danger of "going native" is omnipresent. That's why they grabbed Effie and made her believe that her generous instincts were a mental disorder.  
  
Finnick arrives as Mir Mellark gives a spirited statement about how she's sure she'll see her darling boy again. If I didn't know better, I'd buy it.   
  
"Have the mutts come yet?" Finnick asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You must have been on the way to the studio. Claudius was nattering on about why people feared the mutts. I figure they must have a doozy coming."  
  
"I missed most of the patter," I say. "The opening, too."  
  
"Usual last day opening," Finnick says, wrinkling his nose. "The recap opening."  
  
I don't bother responding. I'm usually drunk somewhere in the Capitol by the last day of the Games, and I only see mandatory viewing through a haze, but I know what he means. When they know it's ending, they play a bombastic theme and recap the glorious moments of the Games that are ending, generally involving children dying in clever ways.  
  
At least it means that it's almost over.  
  
That I can get them through.  
  
If I can do that, if I've actually managed to change the Games, then, I promise Maysilee in my head, I will become a Donnerist.  
  
I'm not there yet, though, and something tells me that I shouldn't start planning their Victory Tour just yet.  
  
The coverage cuts to Claudius, who is smiling impishly, like a small boy with a secret that's just too big to keep. Knowing Claudius as well as I've come to, I'm not expecting him to suddenly announce that the Gamemakers have decided to send everyone home with a new puppy.  
  
"From the beginnings of the Hunger Games," he says, "our tributes have faced genetically engineered animals. This is a holdover from the Dark Days, when these creatures were used not only to help physically subdue the traitors, but to strike fear in them for generations to come. This has often been forgotten, or turned into foolish children's Games." He cuts to a shot of Rue whistling to the mockingjays, and when the shot returns to him, his grin has turned predatory. "Today, we will remember the fear."  
  
Effie reaches over and grabs my hand. Her eyes are wide.   
  
On screen, Cato is waking up at his camp by the lake. He sits up drowsily and blinks at a shrub.  
  
Suddenly, he jumps to his feet and scrambles backward. "Clove?" he chokes.  
  
The angle changes. Now, in the shadows deep inside the bush, I see a pair of human eyes looking out toward the setting sun.  
  
Clove's eyes.  
  
"What have they _done_?" Finnick whispers in a moment of perfect stillness in the Viewing Center, as everyone left seems to understand what we're seeing. Even Brutus looks sick.  
  
Then the silence breaks. The line of shrubs along the lake shore breaks open, and huge, vicious looking creatures break free from them.  
  
They split the screen into three, leaving Cato running madly from the creatures in the middle. On the right side, a holographic image of one of the creatures comes up, and on the left, Claudius gleefully explains them. Four-inch claws, gnashing teeth, strong limbs. They're werewolves. Because the Gamemakers are such inveterate readers, apparently.  
  
"And," he finishes up with delight, "to add to the terror, they have eyes that resemble those of our fallen tributes." He listens in on his earpiece, and chuckles, giving a condescending smile. "I've been told to assure our audience that the bodies have not been desecrated, and the effect is cosmetic only."  
  
"It better be," Finnick says. "I'm checking Char's body on the train, and if there's anything wrong with her eyes…"  
  
He doesn't finish.  
  
I think we both know that there's nothing he can do right now.  
  
I think we both _also_ know that it will be all we can do to hold back an immediate uprising -- and it needs to be held back until we have support -- if the bodies have actually been tampered with.  
  
Claudius and the hologram disappear, and Cato has the full screen now. Though the mutts could kill him easily, even with his armor on, they don't. They keep herding him forward along the lake shore, toward the Cornucopia. When he cuts one down (the Gamemakers perversely identify it as the one based on Beetee's tribute), the Clove-mutt knocks away his sword.  
  
Cato, the boy who has spent the Games storming around the arena, blustering his way through the rest of the pack, has been reduced to a terrified, weeping boy, running for his life.  
  
 _What will they do to the star-crossed lovers?_  
  
The thought comes in full blast, before I have any chance to prepare myself for it.  
  
If they've made the boy who boasted of his strength and fearlessness run in terror, what will they do to the kids who've been displaying love?  
  
For the first time -- and I am ashamed that it's the first time -- it occurs to me that the Gamemakers might not keep their word to the audience.  
  
I shove it aside. I'm sure they don't _want_ two victors, but…   
  
But the story. The story they'll want is Katniss taking revenge on Cato.  
  
For killing Peeta.  
  
And I can't do anything, not now.  
  
The kids have reached the lake. The coverage goes back to them. It's surreally peaceful. After they fill their water bottles, Katniss spots a flock of mockingjays, and sings Rue's song to them. They start to pick it up.   
  
"Just like your father," Peeta says.  
  
Katniss touches Maysilee's pin, and I think about mutts. "That's Rue's song," she says. "I think they remember it."  
  
The microphones in the arena pick up the song of the mockingjays, clear and brilliant as it swells through the flock, bouncing to birds that are further away, heading toward the place where Cato and the werewolves are running, full tilt, toward the kids.  
  
Katniss realizes it when the mockingjay song breaks up.  
  
She doesn’t stop to contemplate, and neither does Peeta. He raises his knife. She nocks an arrow. They realize that Cato is coming. They just haven't realized yet that he's not alone.  
  
When he breaks through the trees, about fifty yards ahead of the mutts, Katniss fires without hesitation, but his body armor stops the arrow, bouncing it harmlessly off to one side.  
  
He doesn't even notice the arrow. Or Katniss and Peeta.  
  
The mutts come into sight.  
  
Katniss and Peeta begin to run.  
  
At first, Peeta is falling behind without notice, but Katniss realizes it quickly. She turns at the Cornucopia and fires an arrow at the mutts, and the one with Char's eyes falls. There are more than enough to fill in the empty spot.  
  
Peeta yells at her to keep going, and she does. She scrambles up the side of the Cornucopia.  
  
Cato has beaten her to the top, and again, she loads an arrow to kill him, but Peeta screams somewhere below. He's at the tail of the Cornucopia, the mutts right behind him.  
  
"Climb!" she yells.  
  
She shoots wildly into the pack, and another one goes down, knocking a few of its companions away with itself.  
  
Katniss grabs for Peeta and yanks him upward.   
  
She looks over her shoulder at Cato, but he seems utterly unconcerned with her. "Can they climb it?" he asks.  
  
Katniss looks over the edge, where the mutts are starting to try for the climb, but not having much luck at it. She stares at them, and then I see the realization dawning in her eyes. The understanding of what these things are.  
  
She shrieks.  
  
The arrow she fires next is less about defense, more disgust at what she sees. It hits the mutt with Glimmer's eyes and sends it crashing to the ground.  
  
Peeta grabs her shoulder. "Katniss?"  
  
"It's her!"  
  
"Who?"  
  
Panicked and frantic, Katniss starts looking from one mutt to the next, her bow hand shaking. If she fires now, she'll be wasting arrows.  
  
"What is it, Katniss?" Peeta asks.  
  
"It's them. It's all of them." She breathes harshly. "The others. Rue and Foxface and… all of the other tributes."  
  
Peeta looks down and he sees what she has. He blanches and sways a little. "What did they do to them?" he asks, unknowingly echoing Finnick. "You don't think those could be their real eyes?"  
  
There's no time for them to debate the question. One of the mutts makes a great leap and grabs Peeta by the leg, yanking him down again. Katniss grabs at him blindly and manages to hold on.  
  
"Kill it, Peeta!" Katniss yells. "Kill it!"  
  
Peeta swings his knife and hits the mutt in the side of the throat. It falls away, tearing a piece of his calf along with it.  
  
Katniss pulls him up onto the Cornucopia, dragging him toward the top, away from the reach of the mutts. His leg is bleeding profusely, leaving a trail of red on the gold. My readings show his pulse rising and his blood pressure dropping rapidly. Adrenaline is keeping him going -- I know this works from personal experience -- but if we don't pull him out of there soon, he'll die.  
  
Then Cato grabs him.  
  
He takes him in a headlock, blocking his breathing, leaving his wounded leg unprotected and bleeding out.  
  
Katniss raises her bow.  
  
Cato laughs. "Shoot me, and he goes down with me."  
  
I can see the gamblers in my head, wondering if she'll take victory by a shot that will surely kill Peeta. In fact, a little ribbon appears at the base of the Capitol broadcast, and the odds of Katniss winning alone have now gone to almost eight to one. Anyone who placed that bet early on stands to make a fortune.  
  
She doesn't fire.  
  
She stares helplessly at Peeta.  
  
He raises his hand to Cato's.  
  
At first, I think it's a vain effort to pull Cato's arm away from his neck, then I see it -- the way Peeta's finger is tracing something in his own blood. His finger drags over the back of Cato's hand once. Twice.  
  
An "x."  
  
"Cheater!" Brutus howls, pushing his desk away from him, disconnecting all of its feeds.  
  
Katniss fires an arrow into Cato's hand.  
  
He reflexively lets go of Peeta, and she dives forward to catch him, as Cato falls down from the Cornucopia, into the pack of werewolf mutts.  
  
Katniss holds Peeta tightly and looks to the sky. I've seen it many times -- the last tribute, waiting for the trumpets to sound.  
  
They don't.  
  
Cato isn't dead.  
  
The mutts have him, but the body armor is keeping them from mortally injuring him. They're crushing his bones, and he's screaming. He tries once to jump back to the Cornucopia. He's nothing if not frighteningly strong. But his arm and ankle are broken, and he doesn't make it. The mutts drag him back down.  
  
Katniss and Peeta huddle together on top of the Cornucopia, dirty and bloodied and frightened at the sounds coming up from beneath them.  
  
Peeta keeps getting paler. There's a cut to District Twelve, and a reporter asking Ruth Everdeen, "How long can a human body sustain these kinds of injuries before death?"  
  
If she answers, I don't see it. The coverage cuts away to the main stage, where Merle Undersee is staring, dumbfounded, at the screen.  
  
They don't go to District Two. I wonder what's happening there.  
  
After ten minutes of this -- who knows how long it must seem to them -- Katniss realizes how badly Peeta really is bleeding. She takes her jacket off, removes her shirt for bandages, then puts the jacket back on. She mops at the blood a little bit, then seems to realize that it's no good. She takes his knife and cuts a sleeve off her shirt, then wraps it around his leg, just under his knee. She twists it around her last arrow and makes a tourniquet (coverage helpfully explains all of this to the Capitol audience). When she's done, she bandages the gaping wound with her shirt, then Peeta opens his jacket to her, and they hold each other tightly against the cold.  
  
The mutts drag Cato into the Cornucopia.  
  
I look to my sponsor book to find something to help her with that leg, something to keep Peeta going until tomorrow. We have money.  
  
But there's nothing for sale.  
  
All gifts have been canceled.  
  
"Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
I almost don't hear the voice, and probably wouldn't take any notice other than the fact that Effie lets go of my hand for the first time since Cato came crashing into Katniss and Peeta's path.  
  
"Haymitch," she says, and nods over my shoulder.  
  
A boy in a Games runner uniform is staring at the screen over my shoulder, not really noticing me anymore.  
  
"Need something?" I ask him.  
  
He winces as Cato's shoulder is crushed, and looks at me with wide, bright eyes. "Mr. Heavensbee wants you," he says.  
  
"Right _now_?"  
  
The boy nods. He is growing paler. Effie stands up and puts him in her chair. She starts fussing over him.  
  
I stand up and look to Finnick. "Stay here. Watch."  
  
"You got it," he says, moving to my chair. He can't do any more than I can, but I want to make sure someone is with them.  
  
I go to the elevators, but I don't need to go up to the Gamemakers' control room. Plutarch is waiting for me. He nods sharply and directs me into an empty glass-walled conference room. Fulvia is at a table with a pile of papers. A brief glance is enough to assure me that they're props, mostly ads and posters that she's shuffling through importantly.  
  
"This better be good," I tell him.  
  
"Keep smiling," he says. "Or at least don't change your expression. We're clear of bugs."  
  
"What's going on, Plutarch?"  
  
"We're going to have to contain the backlash. We can't let it go yet. Not without backup."  
  
"I was just thinking about that. Mauling the corpses for spare parts is a new low, even for Gamemakers?"  
  
He frowns. "What? No, that's not…" He makes a sharp wiping motion with his hand, like he's erasing the conversation. "Haymitch, they never intended to have two winners. You know that, don't you? It was meant to end -- "  
  
"With Katniss murdering Cato in revenge for his killing Peeta?" I nod, pasting a crazy-feeling smile on my face. "Yeah. It occurred to me."  
  
"That would have solved everything. We'd have the storyline, it would end with a triumphant win from a district that hasn't had one in a while. Everyone could rejoice in the triumph of love -- "  
  
"With one of them _dead_?"  
  
"--and everything would go on."  
  
"And we'd have our mockingjay singing," Fulvia hisses. "Everyone would feel for her. She'd rally people in the name of her lost love…"  
  
Plutarch moves to stand between us, and I realize that I'm twitching my fingers and leaning in on her. "Haymitch," he says, "you knew we were making plans for her. I'd have loved to have both of them" -- he gives Fulvia a stern look over his shoulder -- "but we knew that Snow wouldn't go for it in the end, so we planned it for her. She's the one the districts are looking to."  
  
"Snow wouldn't go for it," I repeat.  
  
"Haymitch, he's making Seneca revoke the rule change. The call came in as soon as Cato fell off the Cornucopia."  
  
" _What?_ "  
  
"Don't get angry. Don't lose your temper now, Haymitch. Don't. She's going to need you when she comes out of there."  
  
"The best we can hope for," Fulvia says, "is that the boy dies before Cato does."  
  
I ball my hands up into fists and shove them in my pockets. I have to. I will strangle her if I don't. "The _best_."  
  
"If he doesn't, then Snow will make _her_ kill him -- at least that's what we guess -- and if that happens, she'll be completely broken as a symbol."  
  
I back into the glass wall. I feel my hands itching. "As a symbol."  
  
"I think that's Snow's game plan," Plutarch says. "I think he's starting to figure out that she's not a harmless distraction. Probably because of those idiots in Eleven."  
  
"What's happening in Eleven?"  
  
" _Smile_ ," Plutarch spits. "When you leave, all I've been telling you is about our plans for handling two victors in the post-Games events. Do you understand me?"  
  
I force the corners of my mouth upward.  
  
"Good. What's happening in Eleven is a full-scale uprising. It started when Katniss pulled that stunt with the flowers after her ally died. They've burned fields. They've burned a communications tower, and twenty Peacekeepers are dead. Snow's sent in his elite troops now. There are going to be a lot of dead people. And they've been doing it with the damned mockingjay. Snow can't mention it. He can't stop her from wearing the pin everyone's seen, because they'll want to know why, and he's not going to let anyone know. But _he_ knows. He wants her destroyed as a symbol. Killing the boy who loves her will serve his purposes very well."  
  
"She won't do it," I say. "She'll just sit there."  
  
"Until he bleeds out?"  
  
"He'll make sure he does," I say.  
  
"Or until mutts attack them, and she's left with no choice?"  
  
"That wouldn't serve Snow's purpose. She won't do it."  
  
"Are you sure? Are you really sure?"  
  
"Yes! But even if I'm not… what in the hell do you expect me to do about it? I can't even send her anything!"  
  
"You need to come up with a plan for _after_ ," Fulvia says. "Haymitch, you'll need to make her viable again."  
  
"If she does that, it's not going to destroy her as a symbol," I say. "It's going to destroy her as Katniss Everdeen. And I can't think of one thing that will fix it."  
  
I turn to go. Plutarch grabs my arm. He has a maddening smile on his face. "Haymitch, do not walk out there and say anything. I gave you a heads-up so you could start working on a way to spin this. If you go storming out there, we'll both get arrested -- me for giving you forbidden information, you for treason, because it'll take them about five minutes to figure out why I gave it to you. You're going to smile and nod and go out there and say you need to talk to Cinna about matching up their outfits. Then you'll go to Cinna, and you'll give him this plan of action."  
  
He hands me a list of instructions for handling matched up costumes for Katniss and Peeta -- things I'm pretty sure Cinna's already thought about. If there's a code in it, I don't see it.  
  
I take the list.  
  
Force another smile, and shake Plutarch's hand.  
  
Go back to my table.  
  
I don't think Finnick is fooled for even a second, and Effie seems deeply alarmed. I squeeze her shoulder and tell her that I need to run to Cinna's to talk about the post-Games events.  
  
I don't wait for an answer.  
  
I call a Games car and have it take me over to Cinna's studio. It's an underwhelming area for someone who's made as big a splash as he has, just a studio flat above a small boutique. When he rings me in, I climb a small, narrow staircase. The studio itself is crowded with clothes racks, and Cinna is pinning a stunning yellow dress onto a mannequin.   
  
I give him Plutarch's list. He sprays it with some kind of fixative, and a message appears: _Make her innocent._  
  
He crumples it and throws it into a bin full of wet, decaying paper. (It's labeled "Portia's next big project," but I have no idea what that means.) "Well," he says, "looks like we might have an unexpected circumstance."  
  
I nod. I can't talk, because if I do, I will tell him everything, and by now, they've bugged his studio.  
  
He seems to understand this.  
  
He sets me up in front of his television. Viewing is now mandatory until the Capitol decides otherwise. Katniss and Peeta are shivering together in the dark. Cato is dying slowly and horribly.  
  
"Why don't they just kill him?" Katniss asks.  
  
"You know why," Peeta says, and I wonder if she really does. I wonder if she has any idea that it's so that she will have someone to kill in righteous anger after Peeta dies.  
  
I think she probably doesn't.   
  
Peeta almost certainly does.  
  
I watch for forty minutes, then Cinna sends me back with a fresh sketch of Katniss and Peeta on a stage together, waving to the crowd. He tells me to give it to Plutarch.  
  
I go back to the Viewing Center. Go up to Plutarch's office and give him the sketch. Leave before he decodes whatever Cinna has sent him.  
  
I have never cared less about overthrowing the Capitol, even though it's the cause of this.  
  
I have played with their lives, and it's going to come to murder in the end. It will be Jack Anderson killing his young lover again. (How could I forget that? The audience loved watching them turn against each other.) It will be Maysilee walking away from me along the cliff, while I laugh at the sky and the mutts gather to kill her.  
  
I don't bother taking my seat at the table now. It doesn't matter. There's nothing I can call for, and the sponsors will do no good.  
  
I sit on the couch with Finnick and Effie. Johanna comes in around two in the morning. She's clearly gotten word from Plutarch somehow, because she doesn't make any cracks. Chaff and Seeder may or may not get word, but they show up just before dawn, and neither of them looks like they're expecting an exciting double victory.  
  
When the sun comes up in the arena, Katniss and Peeta can't stand listening to Cato's death throes anymore, though the poor boy is still holding on inside the Cornucopia. Brutus is crouching in front of the big screen with his fists over his ears.  
  
"I think he's closer now," Peeta says. He's wax white in the morning sun. "Katniss, can you shoot him?"  
  
"My last arrow's in your tourniquet."  
  
Peeta doesn't hesitate. He nods at his leg. "Make it count."  
  
He lets her out of the jacket they've been sharing, and she takes the arrow out of the tourniquet. She does her best to tie it up again, but the blood is already starting to flow.  
  
She crawls to the edge of the Cornucopia and looks over. He reaches out to steady her.  
  
She finds Cato in the shadows. The camera gives him a last look. He's conscious, but all sense has left his eyes.  
  
She fires.  
  
The cannon goes off. The mutts go down through the passage that they used to send up the table for the feast.  
  
They wait for the end, but it doesn't come. For some reason, they take it in their heads that they have to move away from the body, and then all will be well. They manage to get down off the Cornucopia, and limp to the lake. They're both stiff and awkward, and Peeta's wound is bleeding badly again, soaking through Katniss's shirt and dripping down his ankle. He looks like a walking corpse.  
  
Katniss gets them water, then picks up the arrow she shot at Cato back in some other world, the one that bounced off of him. I guess she means to make another tourniquet.  
  
That's when Claudius interrupts them in his most cheerful tone, telling them that the rule change has been revoked, and one of them needs to die.  
  
Katniss has already raised her bow by the time he's done speaking.  
  
I close my eyes, then I hear Peeta say, "No, do it."  
  
When I open them, Katniss has dropped her weapons entirely. "I can't," she says. "I won't."  
  
They actually argue about this. About who will die. About whether or not the mutts will come, and one of them will die like Cato. About going back to District Twelve and living with it. Peeta takes the bandage off his leg and the blood loss accelerates.  
  
Beside me, Effie is crying. Johanna is cursing under her breath. Finnick is watching with a kind of dull and deadened look on his face that I can't really associate with him. Chaff's jaw is clenched and his remaining hand is twisted into a fist so tight the knuckles are as white as Peeta's skin.  
  
The world is moving in slow, cold waves. Peeta's voice seems like it's coming from some other world: "Listen. We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please take it. For me."  
  
I look around. Of course. They have to have a victor. Someone to parade around. Someone for Snow to control. Someone to--  
  
"No, I won't let you!"  
  
I look up.  
  
Katniss has freed a pouch from around her belt.  
  
The nightlock berries.  
  
Peeta knows what she means to do, the only thing she can do to herself that will kill her faster than his bleeding leg will kill him.  
  
"Trust me," she says.  
  
They look at each other for a very long time, and suddenly I know what she heard -- what she _really_ heard -- when he said they had to have a victor.  
  
She means to deprive them of one.  
  
He nods. She fills his open hand with berries, then fills her own. Peeta kisses her, then says, "On the count of three?"  
  
They turn around so their backs are pressing against each other, and hold the berries up to the sky so that the cameras and everyone in the Capitol can see them. It's a high stakes game, the kind of thing that Snow makes everyone else play, but never has to play himself. Will they really die, or will they let the Capitol call their bluff? Who will blink first?  
  
She counts aloud.  
  
"One."  
  
Something crashes down above me.  
  
"Two."  
  
A shot of people on the street shows Capitol fans in their finery, digging their nails into their faces.  
  
"Three."  
  
They raise the berries to their lips.  
  
And the Capitol blinks.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Katniss and Peeta are brought back to the Capitol, Haymitch deals with the aftermath of the Games.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**  
"Stop!" Claudius calls out, pressing against his earpiece, his eyes wide with disbelief. In the arena, Katniss looks up at the sound of his voice. "Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you… the tributes of District Twelve!"  
  
There's a brief shot of the square in Twelve, but they aren't cheering. They're watching the whole thing, stunned. Ruth Everdeen gets a close shot. She seems to be trying to figure it out. Danny's hands are buried in his hair, which is sticking up every which way. Mir collects herself to give a beatific smile for the nearest camera.  
  
Katniss and Peeta drop the berries and scrape them out of their mouths. Peeta gags as the ladder comes down from the hovercraft, and as they're lifted up, I can see the blood running freely from his leg. His tracker is showing the signs of shock again.  
  
Everyone in the Viewing Center is silent until Jo lets out a savage cheer. Finnick picks it up, and so do several of the young kids who work the Games. Chaff and Seeder smile. Seeder hugs me.  
  
I want to celebrate. I should celebrate.  
  
But even as I watch, Peeta loses consciousness.  
  
All of it is live on screen. Medics rush him into a treatment area on the hovercraft. It's a pretty sophisticated surgical area. They can't afford to lose a victor to the injuries he sustained in the last fight.  
  
I guess this year, they can, but, to my relief, they don't. They're committed now. They start to work on him.  
  
Then Katniss launches herself at the glass wall, screaming his name, ordering the medics to leave him alone. She is utterly senseless, caught in some kind of arena nightmare. A production assistant is ordered out of the room, and I see him head for the communications array. He doesn't look much older than Katniss.  
  
The telephone rings. I pick it up. "Abernathy."  
  
The boy's voice is high and reedy. He might even be younger than the kids. I don't know how old they have to be to apprentice on the hovercrafts. "Mr. Abernathy, this is Olybrius Byrd. On the hovercraft?"  
  
"I see you."  
  
"Oh. Right." On screen, he looks nervously over his shoulder. "Peeta Mellark is in trouble."  
  
"How much trouble?"  
  
"His heart stopped on the table."  
  
"What?"  
  
"We got it started again, but he's lost so much blood. We're going to do everything we can. We all like him here." In the background, I hear Katniss stop screaming, and see her slump down against the door. Someone goes over to her. Olybrius looks over his shoulder, spooked. "We're not hurting him! We're helping!"  
  
"Yeah, I know. I've been there."  
  
"She's… is she crazy?"  
  
"Probably." I look at her, sitting on the floor, staring at a glass of orange juice she's been handed. "But she'll get over it. Tell me what's happening with Peeta."  
  
He fills me in as well as he can, and none of it sounds good. I'm getting his tracker data, after all, and I know his heart stops a second time. They get it going again. I don't want to hang up. Olybrius doesn't know any more than I do, but cutting the lifeline to the hovercraft isn't easy.  
  
At least I have that. Back in Twelve, on the screen, I can see Danny and Ruth both straining toward the screen, trying to understand what they're seeing.  
  
I write everything down, call Merle in Twelve to pass it on to the families, and have him gather them at his house to get news as soon as I know anything for sure.  
  
I've barely gotten off the phone when a runner tells me to get to the landing pad on the roof. The hovercraft is coming in fast.  
  
"Effie, come on," I say. "I'll stick with Peeta. I want you to get Katniss."  
  
She nods.  
  
The elevator to the roof seems to take a long time. Mandatory viewing is playing on a screen in the wall. They've left the hovercraft, and they're showing people in the Capitol celebrating. Most of the celebrating isn't going on in the tonier neighborhoods, except around the Daughters offices, where my friends have gathered, and are having a subdued party. Aquila raises a glass of wine and tells a reporter, "You asked why we believe in District Twelve? I believe you have an answer."  
  
The reporter doesn't seem to know what to do with it. There's no analysis. Claudius doesn't appear. Seneca Crane doesn't appear, either, though the Head Gamemaker often makes an on-air comment at the close of the Games. They haven't decided how to spin it yet.  
  
We reach the roof just as the hovercraft comes into view. A runner gets Effie to help her gather up Katniss. I follow another into the craft.  
  
Peeta is in the midst of several medics, all of them working furiously at tubes that are going into him. I'm shoved to one side as they carry him out to a waiting vehicle that takes him over the enclosed bridge to the training center hospital. They pass Katniss, who's been knocked out. They're carrying her at a walking pace.  
  
"Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
I recognize Olybrius Byrd's voice and turn to him. He's in another small hovertech vehicle. I've seen these in museums, carrying elderly patrons around.  
  
"Come on," he says. "We'll get you there faster."  
  
We pass Katniss and Effie. I call to her to stay with Katniss, but we're gone before she can answer. Olybrius is driving much faster than anything I've seen in a museum. He drives us straight into the emergency area and stashes the vehicle in an open area. "You're going to need to sign papers," he says. "For taking care of Peeta. Just find Dr. Bridges's administrative assistant. She'll be waiting for you."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
He looks down the hall toward the room where Peeta is, then says, more to himself than to me, "You got them this far. You can do it."  
  
I nod and head down the hall. There's a woman with a clipboard standing by the operating room. Her name is Arcadia. She leads me into an office and reminds me that, as a mentor, I am Peeta's legal guardian until such time as he dies or returns to District Twelve. She shows me a small screen where I can see them operating on him. I've never watched an operation. There's a great deal of blood, and many wires, and doctors with knives and lasers. Assistants scramble around frantically.  
  
Arcadia raps her knuckles sharply on the desk, making me jump. "Mr. Abernathy! I know it looks terrible, but it is the best medical care we can offer. I need your attention here."  
  
"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. It looks very bad."  
  
She nods. "It is. He's fortunate that he began the Games strong and healthy. The hits he's taken would have killed a weaker tribute. The medicine they sent him for his previous leg wound healed it well, and one of its effects is replenishing blood. It was still active, or he'd have died overnight, even with the tourniquet. Speaking of which, the girl certainly saved his life with it. Make sure she knows that. It'll help if…"  
  
"If _what_?"  
  
"If we have to take the leg." She sighs and leans forward. "I need you to sign papers authorizing Dr. Bridges to amputate Peeta's leg if it's necessary."  
  
"Cut it off?"  
  
She nods. "Dr. Bridges will do everything in her power to save the leg, but he's lost a large chunk of the muscle, and after spending all night with a tourniquet there to stop the bleeding, there's gas gangrene, and there's already some myonecrosis as well. In effect, his lower leg is all but dead."  
  
"He… he walked to the lake…"  
  
"He _hobbled_ to the lake. He landed on one leg when he came down from the Cornucopia, and he dragged the dead leg along with him."  
  
"Oh." I look at the papers. I think about Chaff's hand. "I should call his father."  
  
"I need the decision now, Mr. Abernathy. We can't wait for calls to bounce around the districts. You are the legal guardian."  
  
I nod. "Give me the papers. Do whatever's right to keep him alive. Will there be anyone to help him adjust? What about prosthetics?" I sign on the line she indicates, hoping that the Capitol hasn't hidden anything deadly in the paper. My experience with medical treatment here has been uniformly good -- the only thing about the Capitol I can say that about -- so I don't think they'd use it to trick me. At any rate, I don't have time for paranoia about it.  
  
Arcadia scans the document, then presses a key on her desk, presumably telling her boss that I've approved the treatment.  
  
"There _are_ prosthetics available, and they will of course be offered to Peeta, but he's too weak for the surgery right now. We need to get him stronger first."  
  
"Of course, right."  
  
She nods. "Katniss Everdeen has been sedated, but her vitals are reasonably strong. She's a bit dehydrated and hypothermic. Both of those will be rectified before the sedative wears off."  
  
"Good. Then she's fine."  
  
"Yes." Arcadia looks around shiftily, then holds out her hand. Something in it is glinting. "Mr. Heavensbee told me to give this directly to you for safekeeping. He says that with all the interest in your victors, people will try to steal it from the hospital."  
  
I have no idea if she's on our side and trying to pass information, or on Snow's side and trying to get me to give Plutarch away. It doesn't matter. I'm not on rebellion business today. Katniss has rebelled enough for all of us. I take the pin and thank her for it.  
  
There's nothing at all I can do for Peeta while they're operating on him, now that I have the information. I stare through the window on the door for a while, but I don't know what they're doing. When they pull out a bone saw, an attendant comes over and pulls the curtain. I'm just as glad.  
  
I go to the room that's been assigned to Katniss. It's not particularly medically advanced. It's meant for getting rest. It's the room Finnick recovered in. Effie is sitting at her bedside, combing out the tangles in her hair. By Games standards, Katniss is in quite good shape. By her own standards, I'm pretty sure she'd be scandalized.  
  
"How is she?" I ask.  
  
"She's all right. The doctors say so. Cinna's team is going to come and get her straightened out later," Effie says. "But I thought I could start. It's all tangled. It took a while to get the braid undone."  
  
I nod and sit across the bed from her. "Thanks for meeting her, Effie."  
  
"I wish they hadn't sedated her quite so quickly. People have been asking questions about the rehabilitation. They want to enhance her. I told them I didn't have any authority about that."  
  
"You do, but it was a good answer." I take Katniss's hand. "I think we can wait for the sedation to wear off so she can give us an idea."  
  
I'm reasonably sure that Katniss isn't going to want her breasts enlarged, but that will give everyone time to gear up for an argument about it.  
  
She nods. "How is Peeta? Is he alive?"  
  
"Yeah. He's alive. They're operating on him. He may lose his leg."  
  
She covers her face and cries quietly into Katniss's bedspread. My district token is still around her wrist, and when her sleeve pulls up, it's revealed. I reach across and put my hand on her neck, rubbing it in little circles. After a while, she moves her hand up to hold onto my wrist. From above, it would look like some kind of strange ceremony that Katniss is officiating with her eyes closed and her hair half-combed.  
  
It's about forty-five minutes before anyone comes for us. It's not one of the doctors, but a surgical assistant. He has on a smock that's crooked and only partly tied, and I'm guessing that he's hiding a lot of Peeta's blood under it.  
  
"Is he done?" I ask.  
  
"We took the leg," he says. "From the knee down. We had no choice."  
  
Effie begins crying again.  
  
"Is he out of surgery?"  
  
"For the moment. There's more to do, but we'll need to decide about a prosthetic before it can be done. It will make a difference in how we close the amputation. They also want to monitor for further infection before they close."  
  
"Has he woken up?"  
  
"No. But we're bringing him up slowly. You may want to be there."  
  
"Of course I do!"  
  
"If he doesn't ask about the leg, let it be. He's had a lot of shocks. This one can wait until he's stronger."  
  
"How could he not notice?"  
  
"He'll be pretty out of it. His brain will take some time to adjust to the nerve signals, even when he's not. And we're going to cover it up."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"A few days, probably a week. We can speed up physical healing considerably, as you know from your own experience, but we haven't reached instant healing."  
  
I nod and look at Effie. "I'm going to go wait with Peeta. Would you call the families? They're at Merle's place in Twelve."  
  
"What about Katniss?"  
  
"She'll be out for a while. And Cinna and his people should be here soon."  
  
She nods and heads back to the apartment to make the call. I follow the surgical assistant to the surgical recovery room. This one, I remember very well. I woke up hallucinating all of the other forty-seven tributes trying to kill me here. They'd made my friends go home earlier, and I was alone in the dark.  
  
I don't want Peeta to wake up alone if I can possibly help it. I pull the visitors' chair close to the bed. Peeta is shrunken and bruised. They've put some kind of a machine over his legs. It probably has some real function, but it will also hide them from him. His one healthy foot pokes out under the sheet. Beside the bed, a machine whirrs, creating new blood from his cells as fast as it can, feeding it into his body through clear tubes.  
  
Arcadia comes in with a clipboard and asks me a few questions about his health, which I don't know the answers to. She should know that I don't know the answers.  
  
She tells me it's all right, and hands me the clipboard, so I can familiarize myself with the case.  
  
I flip open the metal cover, expecting to see gruesome pictures of the surgery and maybe a diagram of his abbreviated body. Instead, there's a mockingjay feather.  
  
I pocket it as quickly as I can. They don't even bother to pretend that the hospital isn't bugged and monitored. But it's enough.  
  
The next several pages are, in fact, diagrams of Peeta's body and post-operative instructions, but every few pages are marked with a bit of torn paper, ostensibly to point out passages in the instructions. Each one points to a bolded line, but the lines are nonsensical, so I pretend to go to the window to look, and lay them down end to end, blocked by the clipboard itself from any prying cameras.  
  
It's been cut up creatively to look like nothing more than bored doodles, but it's my old code -- the clunky, symbol-based thing I made up in high school. We've found better codes since, but I guess this was the easiest for Plutarch to hide in plain sight. The code does not lend itself to eloquence; it's just pictograms strung together with no given grammar.  
  
 _Snow angry. Girl rebel to districts. Play love only. No rebel or die. Fight lose early. Destroy._  
  
I sigh and shove the "page markers" into my pocket, pretending to absorb the medical information, but the real information is this. Beneath the clumsy grammar, Plutarch is telling me that since Snow couldn't defang Katniss in the arena, he's going to do it now, by treating her as nothing more than a besotted schoolgirl who wouldn't give up her boyfriend. Anything else will be counted as treason.  
  
I'm going to need to warn her.  
  
I suspect she still thinks it's an angle.  
  
I think of her throwing herself against the window of the operating room on the hovercraft. Maybe she doesn't. I'm not sure that's any better for either of them. I think that if she maintains the level of madness she showed on the ship, they'll tear each other apart before the Victory Tour. And if they do grow apart, maybe, by the time of the Tour, they'll be allowed to break up if they want to, or stay together _because_ they want to. The Capitol will have moved on to something else by then, if they're allowed to.  
  
Medical workers drift in and out through the morning and into the afternoon, checking readings on the equipment, adding medicines to the machines that are pumping things through Peeta's veins. Effie comes in briefly to let me know that she talked to the families. Her eyes are brightening, and I think she's taken a pill. Great. She goes back to sit with Katniss.  
  
Outside, the crowds are gathering. They're not as wild as they were in Finnick's year, but they're a solid wall around Games Headquarters. Many are holding up pictures of Katniss and Peeta. Some are throwing coins toward the central fountain -- most are missing, since it's quite a long throw -- in what I take for a superstitious wish for a full recovery of "their" star-crossed lovers. The journalists are having a field day with them.  
  
Arcadia comes back with more papers to sign, this time for surgery to repair Katniss's ruptured eardrum. It's minor surgery, very common in the Capitol. Apparently, people get their eardrums blown out by loud sounds at concerts and in the amusement parks. All routine. She'll be fine, and she'll hear as well as ever. I sign it. They take her to surgery. Effie asks if she can go back to the apartment for a little while, and I tell her it's fine.  
  
I can see Peeta slowly coming to life, the dead whiteness of his skin growing somewhat rosy, his eyes twitching a little, caught in a dream.  
  
At first, I don't notice when his eyes open. I'm checking the news on my handheld -- feeling guilty about being bored, but also needing the information -- and glancing up every minute or so to see if he's awake. I'm not sure how many glances it's been before my mind really registers that he's looking back at me.  
  
"Alive," he says.  
  
"Yeah.  
  
"Katniss?"  
  
"Also alive. Hell of a stunt."  
  
He nods. None of the tubes, miraculously, are going down his throat, and he seems able to talk, if he can think. He stares at the window numbly. If he has any idea that he's missing his leg, he doesn't mention it. "Hurts," he says.  
  
"You gave us a scare. Lost a lot of blood. The doctors got you back. Your parents are very concerned, of course."  
  
"Dad, anyway." He turns to me, a vague curiosity in his eyes. "Is Mom angry?"  
  
"What?"  
  
He looks around, and I realize he's slipped into a dream. "Is Mom mad at me, Jona? I was only trying to help."  
  
"Peeta…"  
  
"She hit me. Is she still mad? I can take tesserae in May, then I can help whoever I want."  
  
I have nothing to say to this. Mirrem Mellark is very lucky that she's several districts away from me right now. "Peeta, it's me, Haymitch."  
  
He blinks, and some sense comes back. "Haymitch. Oh. Victor."  
  
"Yeah, that's right. You're a victor. We're going to be neighbors. You and me and Katniss. Oughtta be fun, right?"  
  
His mouth twitches. "Barrels."  
  
"You want to get some sleep? Help everything knit back up?"  
  
"Yeah. You going away?"  
  
"Long enough to talk to your dad. I'll send someone to sit with you."  
  
I doubt he'll know who it is. He's asleep again before I'm out of the room. My friends have gathered in the waiting area near the elevators. I ask Chaff to go in, in case Peeta wakes up again and discovers the amputation this time. I tell him I also want to talk to him later about that. Cecelia and Seeder want to sit with Katniss for a while when her surgery is finished. Finnick wants something useful to do. I ask him to see if he can divert the attention of the media for a little while. He recruits Jo and they head out onto the streets.  
  
I go to the apartment. Effie is cleaning up and putting out dinner. She is definitely under the influence. I can't deal with it right now.  
  
I go into my room and I call Merle's place. The families are still waiting there, along with the Undersees, Gale Hawthorne, and a plain girl I don't recognize at all. I don't want to spend a lot of time here and risk Peeta waking up with strangers, so I say, "Katniss first, because it's quicker. They're operating on her ear right now. They do it a hundred times a week, and they could do it in their sleep. She's not in any medical trouble."  
  
I doubt any of them miss for a moment that I didn't say she wasn't in _any_ trouble.  
  
I tell them as much as I know about Peeta's condition. I guess Effie told them about the leg already.  
  
"Primrose says there are good prosthetics," Mir says, nodding over her shoulder at Prim, and I can't even _imagine_ that conversation. "You see that he gets the best sort."  
  
"That'll have to wait a couple of days," I tell her, and explain as much as I understood about the procedure. I try to sound confident in it. Of course, getting into their mental states is more delicate. Peeta's more lucid than Katniss seemed to be before they sedated her, but neither of them is exactly stable right now. I also have to explain about the tourniquet -- they'll figure out pretty quickly that it killed the leg, but I need to make sure they know it saved Peeta's life, and they can't blame Katniss for the side effect.  
  
Danny still looks concerned -- and he has every right to -- but having facts always helps. They're something to hold onto. "What do we need to do?" he asks.  
  
I guess there are some people who'd tell me to just let them off the hook from doing anything -- go home and be a family, or something like that. But I know these people. They're _looking_ for something to keep them occupied. "Keep doing what you're doing with the reporters," I say. "They're eating it up, and it'll take some pressure off of Katniss and Peeta while they're recovering."  
  
As I expected, this seems to galvanize them. They all sit up a little straighter. The other part will be more difficult, especially if, as Plutarch suggested, Snow is planning on playing the romance angle hard. Maybe it's even because of that -- I have to give them some time off. Otherwise, they'll make each other crazy. That won't help the narrative.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Just…" I sigh, and look at Kay Undersee. After birds killed her twin sister, I went a little crazy, and tried to kill every bird in her vicinity, including Maysilee's pet canary. The bird got away, since its cage was deeper than my knife was long, but it disappeared from the sweet shop after that. "I want to avoid bird incidents when they get back, okay?"  
  
Kay nods. She needs no clarification on that subject. We made each other very, very uncomfortable.  
  
Mir apparently tires of not being the center of attention. She steps forward. "When Peeta wakes up, you tell him his family loves him, and we can't wait to see him."  
  
 _Is Mom mad at me, Jona? I was only trying to help… She hit me. Is she still mad? I can take tesserae in May, then I can help whoever I want._  
  
 _You know what my mother said to me when she came to say goodbye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me._  
  
I clench my jaw. "I'll tell him, but given that you left him thinking that you didn't care much if he died, I don't know if he'll believe me."  
  
To her credit, Mir doesn't try to deny this. It's not a lot of credit, but it's some. "I'll convince him when he gets home."  
  
"You better," I tell her. "'Cause, lady, if you ever hurt that boy again, you're going to answer to me, and I'm not a confused eleven year old kid."  
  
I cut off the call. I probably shouldn't have spoken back to Mir. But  
  
 _(Is Mom mad at me, Jona?)_  
  
she needed to be told that things are going to change. No one is hurting Peeta again, least of all her.  
  
Of course, I'm going to hurt him if I separate him from Katniss, but that's for his own good.  
  
I wonder if that's what Mir tells herself.  
  
I rub my head and go out to the living room. The plan is to get a drink. I'm done for the day, and my hands are starting to shake. The plan is not to get drunk if I can help it, because I have to go back to the hospital. The plan isn't even to camp out here for a little while and recuperate.  
  
The plan is certainly not a private chat with President Snow, but then, he hasn't exactly asked permission. He hasn't actually knocked.  
  
He looks up from a long paper he's reading and says, "Ah. Abernathy. Just the man I wanted to see."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Katniss and Peeta continue recuperating, Haymitch begins to see some of the backlash.

**Chapter Twenty-Five**  
I'm startled for a moment, but not really surprised. What Katniss did in the arena was more rebellious than anything I've managed, and she did it on live television, and Plutarch's note did say that Snow was less than thrilled.  
  
I sit down across from him. "I guess I should be glad it took you so long," I say.  
  
"Now, now. I'm not entirely heartless." He puts down the heavy sheaf of papers, and takes off his reading glasses. The cover is marked with an official seal and the word, _CONFIDENTIAL_ in bright red letters. "You needed to look after our pair of victors, after all. And I needed to have a meaningful conversation with Seneca Crane."  
  
My stomach rolls over lazily. "Why do I think this conversation ended with an opening for a new Head Gamemaker?"  
  
"You've never been stupid. I've never been enough of a fool to imagine that you are." He shakes his head. "It's a pity. Seneca wasn't stupid, either. But I can't allow a high-ranking official in my government to bow to a defiant little girl."  
  
"She wouldn't have had to do that if you'd let it go."  
  
"And _I_ won't bow to the second-rate theatrics of her mentor." He shakes his head. "Don't tell me you didn't plan this from the start. You were clearly preparing long before the reaping to pair your tributes and create a farce like this."  
  
I decide not to argue. I shrug. "It was a Games strategy."  
  
"It was an attempt to use my own people against me."  
  
"The thought never crossed my mind. Ask anyone on the street. I never said one seditious word."  
  
"Oh, I'm quite sure of that. You know exactly where the line is, and exactly how to walk on the edge of it. But this whole thing stinks of you, Abernathy. I recognize the stench from your Games. You never did play the other tributes. You were always playing the Gamemakers, and so was your protégé." He puts a hand on the papers he was reading. "Do you know what this is?"  
  
"Judging by the cover, I'd say it's one of the many things you don't want me reading."  
  
"Reports of hooliganism in the districts. Nothing that wasn't dealt with swiftly and effectively, mind you, but troubling nonetheless. It seems they were inspired by Miss Everdeen's little stunt to defy the authorities. Petty crimes. Vandalism. Insubordination. I understand that in District Five, the Head Peacekeeper was actually pelted with nightlock berries."  
  
"What's your point?"  
  
He leans forward. "My point -- as I'm quite sure you know -- is that what the girl did was sedition. She defied me, and has agitated malcontents all over the country."  
  
"She was saving Peeta's life, and she wouldn't have had to do it if you hadn't forced her hand."  
  
"The Hunger Games are not about tributes saving one another's lives."  
  
"She loves the boy."  
  
He snorts. "Please. I do have people in Twelve, you know, and I've had them investigating. She barely _knows_ the boy. And another boy there has been… oh, shall we say, somewhat displeased with this display."  
  
"You have your spies checking on high school gossip? Are you really that bored?"  
  
"No one ever saw them so much as speak to one another."  
  
"Which is exactly what Peeta said on Caesar's stage. They got to know each other in the arena. You saw it. So did the rest of the country." I stand up and go to the window. The crowds around the training center are getting bigger. In the darkening evening, I can see the faint ghost reflection of the room -- and the president -- superimposed on them. "She did what she had to."  
  
"She was told to kill him, or let him die. He was told the same."  
  
"That was never going to happen. She wouldn't have done that to a stranger, let alone Peeta."  
  
"And therein lies the problem." Snow closes his report again. "I cannot and will not tolerate insubordination."  
  
I don't answer.  
  
Snow stands up. "I could charge her with treason," he says.  
  
I point at the crowd. "They'd rip you to shreds."  
  
"Which is why I'm going to give her a chance. Whatever happens, she is _not_ to encourage defiance. She is not to be triumphal. It will be about the boy _only_. And she will be grateful for the mercy shown to them."  
  
"Mercy," I repeat. "You need to look that word up."  
  
He goes to the elevator and waits for the door to open. When he gets in, he says, "You're her mentor, Abernathy. See to it."  
  
The doors close, and the elevator goes down.  
  
It's nothing I didn't know. Plutarch warned me. But there's a difference between a note in an old code and a visit from the president of Panem.  
  
I look at the bar. Just one drink, to calm my nerves. Who wouldn't want one after a visit from Snow? No need to get melodramatic about it.  
  
I think of Peeta on the train, cleaning me up after I fell in my own filth. I think of him waking up, realizing that they've taken his leg. He's not going to need me lurching around his room and puking on the medical equipment.  
  
I grab a book for the waiting room and leave.  
  
When I get back to the hospital, they've finished the surgery on Katniss's ear. It's a painful few hours as it heals, so they're planning to keep her sedated until tomorrow. Peeta is still sleeping. Our Avox, Lavinia, is carrying a tray of sandwiches around. For all of Plutarch's worry when we arrived, her presence doesn't seem to have thrown Katniss much at all, at least not for long.  
  
We're gathered in the waiting area. It's not something that happens every year, but when it's one of "ours," we always wait here, watching in shifts. Cecelia is watching Peeta. Beetee is watching Katniss. Seeder and Effie are having a long conversation over manicures (with Katniss's prep, Octavia, and Peeta's prep, Sergius), and Chaff is reading a book by the window. Wiress is back from her Capitol business, and tinkering with a music box. Finnick and Jo are lounged on couches, watching a television show about competitive cat shows. A middle-aged woman in a cat-eared red wig is discussing "Mr. Pettifur"'s special diet. She's also acquired a new kitten, which she shows off proudly. It has long black hair. Its name is Cat-niss. Of course.  
  
"What kept you?" Jo asks.  
  
"A congratulatory visit from the president."  
  
Finnick rolls his eyes. "I'll bet."  
  
"Weren't you two going to go and deflect attention?"  
  
"There's no deflecting it," Finnick says. "If they get any more popular, I may have to make room in the spotlight."  
  
I go over and sit with Effie and Seeder. "Any news other than Katniss's surgery?"  
  
"Nothing. I've been expecting a visit from the Head Gamemaker. It's generally considered polite."  
  
"Snow suggested that Crane is… otherwise occupied."  
  
Effie makes an irritated little sound, not catching the idea at all, though Seeder's eyes go wide.  
  
I get a call from Caesar in the middle of the afternoon, wanting me to come in for an interview. He seems delighted with the entire situation, and wants full reports on the kids. He's especially happy that Peeta made it through, and jokes that Peeta can take over his job next year if he wants to.  
  
He doesn't ask me what this means to all of Panem. I'm guessing Snow had a conversation with him as well. He does ask me what I'll do with neighbors ("Shun them") and how I really feel about the kids. I tell him that they're good kids, smart kids. I like them. "But if they get mushy around me, I'll have to throw them in ice water."  
  
"They're certainly popular here," he says. "I haven't seen anything like this since Finnick Odair. I'm sleeping in the studio!"  
  
"You always sleep in the studio."  
  
"True. But now I'm doing it because I couldn't get through the crowd if I tried!" Caesar gives his on-camera laugh. "How do you think they'll feel about all of this when they've recovered?"  
  
He smiles, and I'm grateful for the question. It gives me a chance to build a little breathing space for them, which I'm sure is Caesar's intention. "Well, I think they're both going to be a little overwhelmed by all the support they've gotten here in the Capitol. I can tell you from experience, it's very strange, and I only got a fraction of what it's going to be like for them. Katniss is a very private person anyway, so she might take some time to come out of her shell, but I promise, she'll be grateful for all the help. Peeta… he's been through a lot over the last few weeks. I wouldn't expect him to be joking about the showers again quite yet."  
  
"That's true. Is he aware yet of the extent of his injuries?"  
  
"Is the audience?"  
  
Caesar nods. "The amputation is public knowledge."  
  
"I don't think Peeta's really absorbed it yet. He's an athletic kid. It's not going to be easy."  
  
"Well, he certainly has the love of the Capitol to help him through it. Doesn't he?" He gestures to the fifty or so people who've been allowed in for the live taping, and they cheer wildly. "And the love of Katniss Everdeen, which undoubtedly will mean more to him."  
  
I know that we have to go through this farce if I'm going to keep Snow from charging Katniss with treason. I even know that Katniss does love Peeta. But it's still uncomfortable. I don't feel like it's my story to tell. "Aw, come on, Caesar. Do you really think I'm the best guy to talk about love stories? I have to watch the gossip shows to find out what _my_ love life is."  
  
This gets a laugh, and Caesar uses it to segue into a lighter tone. He talks about what he's looking forward to in getting to know Katniss and Peeta over the years. "I want her to sing for me!" he says. "I don't even care if it's on camera."  
  
When the interview is over, he walks back to the training center hospital with me. He's uncharacteristically quiet most of the way. Just before we reach the earshot of the guards at the front of the building, he stops and says, "Haymitch, I think you know a great deal about love."  
  
"Right, that's me. A real romantic lead. Great with the sappy greeting card poetry. Always -- "  
  
"I remember Indigo."  
  
I stop talking. I like Caesar, but I don't like hearing my girl's name come from the mouth of anyone in the Capitol. Even Effie only uses it when I've really gone off the rails.  
  
"I remember her, and I remember Maysilee. I remember your mother and your brother. I talked to them quite a lot during your Games."  
  
I start walking again.  
  
Caesar catches my arm. "Haymitch, I've seen the way you've been working for these kids. I saw the way they talked to you from the arena, and I saw you work every connection in the Capitol making a miracle for them. You should have seen yourself this year. I know Snow thinks it was about your politics, but I don't believe that for a second. I don't know if you were joking about shunning them or not, but you shouldn't. You should let them in. You should let yourself love them. You're at your best when you love people."  
  
"Right. Because that worked out great for the people you just mentioned."  
  
"You're alone too much."  
  
I shake my head. "Who's alone? I've got an escort and half a dozen victors upstairs waiting for me. I'm fine."  
  
I walk away from him, leaving him alone in the twilight, and head back up to the hospital level.  
  
Only Effie and Cinna are there.  
  
I frown. "Where is everyone?"  
  
They look at each other guardedly, then Cinna says, "While you were in the studio, Snow sent out an order that only victors involved in the closing ceremony could stay in the Capitol."  
  
"What? They've always -- "  
  
"They all had to go pack up. They'll be on the next train out to District Six."  
  
I sit down. "Well, Finnick's probably relieved, anyway."  
  
"Actually, he said to tell you that he's sorry," Effie says. "And Johanna said so as well."  
  
"Jo?"  
  
"Well, in her own way."  
  
"She yelled at the Gamemakers for about ten minutes," Cinna says, grinning. "Then she said to remind you that you're an old fart, since she wouldn't have another chance this year."  
  
"And the rest?" I ask. "Any other messages?"  
  
"Chaff grumbled a lot and said to be careful. Beetee said he'd try to argue the case, but I suspect he lost the argument. Wiress… well, you know Wiress. She was too confused to say much."  
  
Effie comes over. "And Cecelia and Seeder both said to give you this."   
  
She hugs me and kisses my cheek.  
  
I hug her back, but my heart's not exactly in it.  
  
We stay together in the waiting area. Portia joins us after a while. She's been directing Peeta's preps to work around his tubes and get him cleaned up. It seems macabre to me, but I guess they did the same with me. And maybe it's better to wake up not feeling filthy. I don't know. Katniss's preps are in and out with her as well. They've taken care of her nails and finished untangling her hair.  
  
The doctors finally come to shoo us all out, assuring us that Peeta and Katniss are both sleeping, and we should sleep as well. Effie and I go back to the apartment. The others fight the crowds to go home.  
  
Morning brings more media appearances. I return to the children's puppet show, where a pink and silver girl puppet named Tibi takes my hand and asks me if I'm as happy as everyone else. I tell her that I certainly am. She tells me that she wants to be just like Katniss when she grows up. I tell her it's a fine goal, but there's only one Katniss, and that she should be the very best Tibi she can be instead. The puppeteer looks surprised behind her wall. I guess that wasn't the line I was supposed to give. Maybe they should have given me a script.  
  
After the puppet show, I meet Effie for a press conference, where we thank our sponsors. She also has invitations to the Daughters' headquarters for lunch. I check in with the hospital. The kids are still asleep.  
  
When we get to the Daughters', I'm surprised to find quite a lot of activity. There are Capitol trunks out front, and furniture is being moved out.  
  
Aquila and a few of the other ladies wave to me from the porch, where there's a nice lunch set out. It's a conspicuously alcohol-free meal. Laurentia Hoops complains about the lack of wine, only to get a very stern look from Aquila.  
  
"I was glad to get an invite," I say. "Hope I held up my end of the deal for you."  
  
Aquila smiles. "You certainly did."  
  
"Not offended anymore?"  
  
"Oh, quite offended by how I have no doubt you'll spend the rest of the year. But I suppose I'll forgive you."  
  
"Good. The last thing I'd want is to lose the Daughters."  
  
Severina Bottler gasps back a sob.  
  
"What is it?" I ask. "Did something happen? What's going on here?"  
  
Ulpia Jakes sniffs into her handkerchief. "Oh, it's nothing."  
  
I look at Aquila. "Do I have to kill someone for you?"  
  
She smiles. "Hardly." She takes a deep breath. "Our charter has been revoked. That's all. It's not a tragedy, and it's entirely my fault. It seems I expressed things in my capacity as leader that were not entirely consistent with the charter's stated goals."  
  
"What stated goals?"  
  
"The glory of the Capitol," Ulpia says. "They didn't like that she compared us to a district. It's so ridiculous! Who wouldn't be proud to be like District Twelve right now? I'm _still_ proud to be a District Twelve sponsor!"  
  
"As are we _all!_ " Firmina Sanders declares, standing up with her glass of orange juice raised to the sky. "To District Twelve!"  
  
The others echo the toast, as fiercely as is possible for small older women who think it gauche to raise their voices -- which is much more fiercely than I would expect.  
  
"Thank you," I say, and raise my glass in turn. "To the Daughters, the Founders, and my good friends."  
  
We go back to our meal, and they go back to the tales of their ancestors. I mix it up a little by telling them about mine. They actually seem interested.  
  
After it's over, I take a walk in the garden with Aquila. We go far enough to be out of earshot of the workers who are now moving out the portraits.  
  
"Are you ladies in trouble?" I asked. "Do you need… help?"  
  
She smiles. "Most of them aren't. I may be."  
  
"Do you need to disappear?"  
  
"I can disappear on my own. And I probably will, very soon." She looks out over the gardens. "This isn't the city we founded. This isn't what we were meant to be."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for. There are other people I intend to make sorry."  
  
"Will you be all right?"  
  
"I will. You be safe. And don't be foolish."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
She sits down on a low wall. "There are a lot of roads to take to… to a place we'd rather be. To Panem as it should be. A lot of those roads look open. Easy. Some might even look fun, or at least just, after everything. But the map of history shows that most of the roads only lead to terror. Bloodshed. The destruction of everything that matters. So be careful, Mr. Abernathy. Be careful which road you choose. Make sure it leads to a better place than the one we're leaving."  
  
"I wish I could see all the roads."  
  
"Don't we all." She turns and smiles faintly. "You should go now. We may not see each other next year. But I'll be around. You can bet on it."  
  
I nod and leave, my worry not remotely assuaged.  
  
Effie and I go back to the hospital. Katniss has woken up long enough to have lunch, and Lavinia indicates that she asked about Peeta first. She tried to struggle out of bed after eating, but they sedated her again.  
  
I spend a long time sitting by her that afternoon, hoping she'll wake up, but she doesn't. I read in the chair by her bed. It's just another mystery. I read a chapter of it out loud to her, but I doubt she hears it.  
  
She's scheduled for another cosmetic procedure in the evening, and I go to sit with Peeta. The lights are off, and I'm anticipating another long spell with the book. It takes me a little bit to register that his eyes are open.  
  
"Hey," I say.  
  
"Hey." His voice is soft and harsh, and his eyes are red.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
"My leg is gone."  
  
I look down and realize that the brace that was over his legs has been moved. He can clearly see that one leg is missing from the knee down. "Peeta…"  
  
"Were you planning to tell me?"  
  
"When you got stronger. I didn't know you were awake. When did you wake up?"  
  
"I don't know. It was already dark. I went to reach for the button." He looks down the bed. "I didn't believe it. I thought I was having a nightmare. I can _feel_ my toes, Haymitch. Where's my foot? What did they do with my leg?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Peeta."  
  
"Is it buried? Burned?"  
  
"I don't know. Do you want me to find out?"  
  
"I want them to put it back!"  
  
"They couldn't. They tried. But some things, they just can't do."  
  
He turns his face away. "What am I supposed to do?"  
  
"There are good prosthetics. If you want one."  
  
His shoulders hitch, but when he speaks, his voice is calm. "Leave me alone."  
  
"Peeta -- "  
  
"Please, Haymitch. I'm okay. I'll be okay. Just… let me be alone."  
  
Against my better judgment, I leave.  
  
By morning, he's come to some kind of peace with it. There's a young woman from the college talking to him about acceptance, anyway. He tells me that he wants a prosthetic, if he can't have his real leg. The doctors agree that the cell growth has taken hold and he's strong enough to handle the surgery. We spend an hour or so going through a medical supply catalog with a doctor to pick the one that's best for him. The one he chooses is robotic, and will respond to his nervous system's signals. It will be almost like having a natural leg, as long as he doesn't look at it, though the doctor says it will take time to get used to. It will feed off his body's electrical energy, the same as the rest of the nervous system. He starts to make a joke about becoming a robot superhero, one limb at a time, but he's not ready for it. His voice cracks, and he turns away again.  
  
I ask if he wants me to have them bring Katniss up from her sedation before the surgery. He seems horrified at the thought of her seeing him like this. I let it go.  
  
The next day, while he's in surgery, I find a group of junior Gamemakers in Katniss's room. They're measuring her, and taking photographs.  
  
I grab the camera and shove the photographer out of the way. "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"We're thinking about closing events!" he says. "They've nearly finished repairing the arena damage, but she's still too… scrawny. She won't look like a victor on stage. We were just thinking she could use some enhancements." He gestures at his chest, making round shapes with his hands.  
  
"She _is_ a victor, and if you even think about doing that, you're going to remember that I'm a victor, too, and I still remember how to use a knife."  
  
A young woman rolls her eyes. " _Really_ , Mr. Abernathy, you're overreacting. It's the sort of surgery that half the girls in the Capitol beg their parents for. Just a little cosmetic tweaking to make her young man go wild for her."  
  
"If she wakes up begging for you to inflate her chest, then _maybe_ I'll let you near her. But right now, I'm her guardian, and you're not touching her. And as to her young man, he's fine with her as she is."  
  
Another woman, a bit older than the others, says, "I don't see what your problem is. This is a matter of Games production value. It's part of her style!"  
  
"It's not her style. It's your style. Get out of here! Now! She needs rest!"  
  
"She's a star! She should look like one!"  
  
"Did you hear me? I said get out of here, or I'm going to throw you out."  
  
This finally catches the attention of hospital security, and they decide to throw all of us out. The junior Gamemakers assure me that we're not done with this conversation. They're right. The next day, while Peeta is in recovery, I'm called to a meeting with the full staff of Gamemakers. Cinna comes with me. No one has taken on the position of Head Gamemaker yet, but I notice Plutarch carefully positioning himself to be seen and heard. I don't know if it's about his rebellion or his ambition. He takes my side, at least, though, to my fury, he agrees that "something" must be done about her clearly inadequate physical condition.  
  
Cinna is the one who finally comes up with a compromise. He promises that he'll cover the marks of her starvation (such as it was -- I can see skinnier girls on the Seam every day who are considered well-nourished) by padding her clothes for the cameras, and have the make-up team give her a healthy glow.  
  
"They want to turn her into a tart," I say. "Don't help them."  
  
"Oh, I have other plans. The Capitol loved the innocence. They're going to get so much innocence that they'll choke on it." He heads back to his studio to start putting quilted pads in his dresses.  
  
Peeta is still nervous about seeing Katniss, and she's sedated for a last pass at the scar on her forehead. Caesar tells me that people want to see them together, but since Peeta is self-conscious about his leg, he'll give it time by promising them a big reunion show for the viewing of the highlight reel. I concentrate on working with Peeta to get him confident enough walking with a cane to show up on stage in a few days. He starts walking between parallel bars, holding himself up with his strong arms and shoulders. He trips and falls quite a lot at first, even though the prosthetic is working. He's just not used to it. They say it used to take a lot longer, but Capitol medicine will supposedly conquer even this.  
  
"I can't do this," he mutters. "I need more time."  
  
"I wish I could give you more. But I can't. Katniss has no idea that you lost your leg. Do you want me to tell her ahead of time?"  
  
He shakes his head furiously and goes back to the bars. By the end of the day, he manages to let go and lurch a few steps with the cane. His face is red and he's sweating badly. I make him go back to bed.  
  
The next day is the same. Katniss swims up to consciousness long enough to have a bowl of soup, then they knock her out again. I ask why. No one can tell me. They have orders to keep her sedated. Maybe they're worried that she'll go looking for Peeta and spoil the big reunion.  
  
Finally, after a little over a week, they decide that Peeta can balance well enough to walk across Caesar's stage, and Katniss is as physically perfect as I'll allow them to make her. They set up the cameras in the waiting areas -- now separated by a false wall -- and put the laundered arena costumes in the hospital rooms. Peeta's is in shreds. Portia goes in to help him figure out how to wear it. Cinna will wait for Katniss with Effie and me, then take her for a fitting after they get the greetings on film. Then Effie and I will join Portia to greet Peeta.  
  
It takes longer than they expected for Katniss to come up from their drug-induced stupor, and the production team hidden behind another false wall is getting impatient by the time she appears from her room, caught on a hidden camera in the hall.  
  
"Peeta!" she calls, looking around.  
  
Effie gets up, smiling broadly. "Katniss?"  
  
Katniss turns, her eyes wide, and spots us.  
  
She starts to run. I expect at first that she's running to Cinna, her rock through the pre-Games events.  
  
But it's me she launches herself at. I barely have time to open my arms when she falls into them, burying her head against my chest.  
  
I hold her tight and whisper, "Nice job, sweetheart."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch realizes what a fine line he's going to have to walk, and just how much trouble there could be.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**  
Katniss stays in my arms for a minute or so. She's probably pretending I'm Glen. I can't imagine she'd be holding onto me this tightly. I don't mind. I let her. She needs someone, and I'm here. Effie pats her hair and keeps saying something about pearls from coal. I think she said something like that during training. It sounds ridiculous, but Katniss doesn't call her on it, and neither do I. Her heart's in the right place, and the Capitol doesn't know any better anyway.  
  
She finally lets go of me and hugs Cinna and Effie, then panics momentarily when she realizes that Portia and Peeta aren't here.  
  
"He's fine," I tell her. "Only they want to do your reunion live on the air at the ceremony."  
  
"Oh, that's all." She relaxes immediately. "I guess I'd want to see that myself."  
  
I send her off with Cinna. I doubt she'll have trouble selling the story, not if she gets panicked this easily at the thought of Peeta not being with her.  
  
Effie and I move over to Peeta's side of the wall, where Portia is waiting nervously. "He was up all night," she says. "The amount of makeup on his eyes… I hope they don't go for a close up shot."  
  
I don't mention it, but I doubt they'll put this reunion on the reel at all. First of all, the Capitol is mainly seeing Katniss as the star, with Peeta as a supporting player. More importantly, there's absolutely no way that even a Capitol audience will believe that the boy they saw dragged up from the arena was able to cheerfully greet his mentor, escort, and stylist at the hospital as soon as they wheeled him in (I'm assuming they'll have him in a wheelchair, anyway, since they won't want him lurching around the stage). It would break the suspension of disbelief. My guess is that they'll show Peeta being taken to surgery, then cut in Katniss falling into my arms, then move on to the closing segment, if they bother with these shots at all. The whole thing started in Jo's year. She was in isolation for three weeks and came back from it perfectly healthy and energetic. Someone caught Jack hugging her on the roof of the Training Center and swinging her around, glimmering in the Capitol sunset.   
  
The shot was a great favorite of the audience, and it was hastily inserted into the highlight reel. The next year, they caught Finnick wrapping Annie in a blanket and carrying her inside, and it was also a popular shot. They tried to catch the same kind of shot with Otho Magro the year after, but Brutus was already yelling at him about something, so they couldn't make use of the real footage. Instead, they started staging reunions to be cut in. Otho's edited-in greeting looked fake and wasn't well-loved. Ravish's embrace of Gloss the next year went better, but last year's winner, Livius Frango, was even worse with Brutus than Otho. If this year's doesn't fit, they'll probably call a stop to the fad.  
  
It doesn't matter. They go through the motions, in case there's anything good.  
  
By their standards, there isn't.  
  
By my standards, what happens next is nothing short of a miracle. The door to Peeta's room opens. We see him come out on a small screen, caught by a hidden camera. He stumbles briefly, then plants his cane solidly on the floor. He's carefully made up, and wearing what looks more like an artfully rendered ragged uniform than the actual rags he wore out of the arena. He looks like a movie star playing the part of a wounded tribute… and forgetting to have any real trouble.  
  
I realize that he must have spent the night up in his room learning to walk again. Having seen him struggle in physical therapy, with all the assistive equipment, I can only imagine him struggling around his hospital room, fighting with the cane -- getting up from his spills and making himself move forward, stand straighter, and look ahead instead of down.  
  
"Peeta!" I call. "We're down here."  
  
He smiles, but doesn't hurry up. He keeps a steady, even pace, his cane clicking on the floor in counterpoint to the heavy thud of his mechanical foot. Effie starts to go to him, but I hold her back.  
  
Peeta emerges at the end of the hall. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging me to mention something about the fact that he can walk. I don't.  
  
When he gets near me, I can see the stress lines in his jaw, the sweat starting to pool in his temples.  
  
I ruffle his carefully arranged curls. "You," I tell him, "are crazy."  
  
He smiles. "I tried to lose the cane, too. I ran out of time."  
  
"I think I just lost the title for most stubborn cuss in District Twelve."  
  
I hold out my hand and he shakes it.   
  
Out of nowhere, I laugh. I have no idea why. It just comes up from somewhere inside me, and I let it come. Peeta's not up to laughing, but he grins back at me and playfully knocks a few of my curls out of place.  
  
"Honestly, both of you," Effie says, exasperated, and throws her arms around Peeta.   
  
He hugs her back solidly and gives her a kiss on the cheek, then looks at me over her head. "I guess I see Katniss on the stage, right?"  
  
"Caesar gave you as much time as he could. And she has no idea about…" I point vaguely at his leg.  
  
He nods. "Well, at least maybe she won't be too worried about it now. I think I have a handle on it."  
  
Effie finally relinquishes him to Portia, who leads him away to get him ready for the interviews. Once the cameramen call "cut," he lets himself favor the leg a little bit.  
  
"We should get you ready," Effie says when he's gone and the production team is packing up. "Everyone will want to see you."  
  
"I doubt that."  
  
"Okay, probably not," she agrees. "But they'll be _glad_ to see you, and you owe it to yourself to go out there looking good. At the moment, you look like you haven't slept well in ages, and your hair is a wreck and you smell like it's been a while since you had a shower and --"  
  
"All right, Effie. I'll take care of my many failings."  
  
"I didn't mean it _that_ way." She purses her lips and draws in her eyebrows. " _Really_ , Haymitch. You've just done something that ought to be impossible. You _did it_. You brought them both through."  
  
"They got themselves through. I just got them money and tried to work the angles. They still wouldn't have gotten through if Katniss hadn't done what she did."  
  
Effie sighs and shakes her head. "You really have no idea who you are, do you? What you've done?" She takes my hands. "I'm so _proud_ of you, Haymitch! I want you to go out there looking like a hero. You deserve it!"  
  
"You sound like my mother."  
  
She rolls her eyes hugely. "That's either the best or worst thing you've ever said to me. I'll decide which later." She comes up on her toes and kisses my cheek, then lets go of my hands starts to pace. "Now go upstairs and clean up. I'll send someone over in two hours to see to your hair. Cinna has a suit set aside for you, I think. I'll call his studio to send it up. You should be ready by" -- she checks her watch -- "three-thirty, I think. After the highlight reel, there's the victory banquet --"  
  
"I remember that."  
  
"-- at which you will stay _far_ from the bar."  
  
"I'll be okay. I can't afford to drink yet."  
  
"Haymitch, you should stop entirely. You've made it this far. You don't need to add 'yet.' I should have Merle clear out your supplies at home --"  
  
"Effie, come on. I made it. I can do it. I can control it."  
  
She looks unconvinced, which is fair. I'm not sure I have any intention of staying sober back in Twelve, whether I technically can or not. The idea of finishing all of this up and just getting back to normal is appealing.  
  
Effie grimaces and goes on. "After the banquet, it will be late. We'll need to get back to the apartment and get them to sleep before the final interviews. They'll be on the air at two for that, so we'll want them up for prep by nine-thirty. Your fan club wants an interview before you go -- you know Erastus, he's very excited -- so I'll set that up while they're in prep. You won't have to be on camera during the interview, though of course, Caesar will want to meet with you as well, before he talks to them. And then, after the interview --"  
  
"Effie, stop scheduling."  
  
"It's a very tight schedule, Haymitch. I'm not even sure when I'll get a chance to say goodbye to you before the train leaves. Well, other than the public goodbye, of course, which will be focused on them. I suppose we can skip that, I'll see you for the Victory Tour in January anyway. Please be sober. That's going to be a major event, and --"  
  
"Effie!" I grab her shoulder. "I can deal with the next two days, but don't schedule me for January yet."  
  
"I have to! It's not just what you did for them. It's also going to be a Quell year, and you're the outgoing Quell victor. There are going to be _events_."  
  
I doubt this -- I doubt very sincerely that Snow will want the audience paying any more attention to me than can possibly be avoided -- but I don't say so. "Calm down," I tell her. "It'll all come together."  
  
"Of course it will -- if I make sure of it." She smiles and pats my arm. "Go on upstairs and take care of yourself. I need to go find something fiery to wear. Cinna offered me a dress but it was so… I didn't feel comfortable in it."  
  
"Effie?" I call as she starts to go.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Think 'hearth' more than 'wildfire.'"  
  
She nods and runs off to the elevator, leaving me alone to catch my breath. I look into a mirror on the wall. She's right, as usual. I look like death warmed over. My clothes are hanging on me. I guess I haven't been eating all that much for the past few weeks.  
  
I take the elevator up to the apartment alone. Through the window, I can see that the crowds are even bigger than they were before. There are people already camping out for good seats in City Center, and the Peacekeepers are holding them behind the barricades.  
  
I take a shower. When I get out, I see that our Avoxes have set up a light lunch for me, and laid out a suit from Cinna. It's not overtly fire-related, but the shirt is a shimmery grayish white that brings smoke to mind, and the tie is bright red. Like the shirt, it's made of a light-catching material, and it seems to flicker when I hold it up in the sunlight.  
  
Lavinia comes in with a tray of shrimp. It's round, and, to my confusion, openly displays the sign of the mockingjay.  
  
"Really?" I say.  
  
She bites her lip, obviously thinking about how to express something, then pulls me to the window. She waves her arm at the crowd, then makes a fluttering motion with her fingers.  
  
"They're wearing the mockingjay?"  
  
She nods and makes an expansive gesture.  
  
" _Everyone's_ wearing it."  
  
Another nod.  
  
"So it doesn't mean anything."  
  
A rocking motion of her hand. Maybe, maybe not.  
  
She points at the shrimp and holds up four fingers.  
  
"Gift from Four?"  
  
She switches to three fingers and thrusts her arm forward like a spear.  
  
"From Finnick," I guess.  
  
She snaps her fingers, nods, and leaves.  
  
From Finnick, the mockingjay is not a meaningless symbol. There are daily airlifts of fresh seafood from Four to the Capitol (apparently, they don't care for frozen fish), so it's always made a good smuggling medium. I dump the shrimp into a bowl and carefully examine the tray. There's nothing as obvious as a lining paper. It takes a bit, but I finally feel the way the plastic seems to bubble in the middle. The edge of the tray is thick, and feels a little bumpy.  
  
Two trays welded together.  
  
I use a knife to cut off the edge, and inside, I find a white envelope. It's thin enough to avoid security. I open it. He hasn't bothered with code, though he's careful not to mention anything especially rebellious. They could scold him for unapproved communication if they'd found it, but not treason.  
  
 _Haymitch,  
Sorry I missed the chance to say goodbye this year. It's been quite the year, hasn't it?  
  
Johanna and I talked a few times, and we think that your star-crossed lovers may need a break from the cameras before the tour, so we're going to do our best to keep the gossip pages busy. Sorry if that's stealing their thunder, but I remember that first year. I don't wish that nonsense on anyone, and they're going to be hounded to death if we don't do something about it. Imagine us as white knights charging to the rescue, so they get some breathing room, though I guess we'll probably look more like clowns coming out of a little tiny car.  
  
Chaff and Seeder said they'd clean up the mess -- you know the one! -- and Beetee said that he and Wiress have to try and get the power up in Three, anyway. Mags said to tell you that she can still manage her slingshot, if you need her help. Cinna's got Cecelia looking for new fabrics so we'll all be looking our best. Berenice and Paulin from Six… well. You know. They send their best. Jo says that Jack's excited about the win, and is looking for places in Seven to show off.  
  
Take care of yourself. My mother says to stop climbing trees. (Your guess is as good as mine on that.)  
  
Looking forward to seeing you in Four for the Victory Tour. We'll have to go swimming.  
Finnick_  
  
I destroy the note, but I'm glad he sent it. Chaff and Seeder are trying to hold things back in Eleven until we have everything in place. Beetee and Wiress are trying to stir up the stolid District Three. Cecelia will be passing information through Cinna. Jack's looking around Seven for something, hopefully escape routes if the Capitol comes down on them. I have no idea why Finnick's mother is talking about trees, and if Finnick means something by the swimming comment, it's lost on me, but at least he and Jo will be trying to help Katniss and Peeta as well as they can. I'm a little worried about just how they're going to grab the gossip pages, but I guess they know what they're doing.  
  
About half an hour after I finish the note, the young man Effie sends to do my hair arrives. He's a good little Capitol Dreamer, all about the glory of the Games. He's wearing a mockingjay pin and, while he's washing me up and brushing me out, he tells me all about how he's going to learn to do his hair like Peeta's, and he's already spending most of his days in the shop doing extensions on Capitol girls so they can wear a braid like Katniss's.  
  
"I think the grown men ought to want _your_ hair," he says as he shines up the curls. "Though maybe you should cover up a couple of the whites. You want me to do that?"  
  
"I have whites?"  
  
"Only a few. Easy to see against the black, though." He holds up a pair of mirrors, one reflecting the top of my head into the other. Sure enough, I can see about five white hairs weaving their way through the rest. It's a strange thing. I never noticed them before. "But they'd only take a few minutes to clear up."  
  
"It's okay. I've earned some gray hair."  
  
He looks puzzled. "I could just get some dye and --"  
  
There is suddenly a persistent, soft beeping from my room.  
  
"Do you want to get your telephone?"  
  
I frown. With the Games over, and everyone getting ready for interviews, I can't think who'd be calling. I take the towel off from around my neck and go back to answer, sending the boy away with a tip, even though he isn't quite finished.  
  
It's Merle Undersee. He smiles. It doesn't resemble his usual good cheer. "Haymitch! Hello. I wanted to wish the kids luck with their events this afternoon, but I imagined they'd be in prep. I guess you are, too. Sorry."  
  
"It's okay."  
  
"You wouldn't believe how busy it is here. The bakery's practically overrun -- mostly the new Peacekeepers they've sent out."  
  
I sit down. "To… control the crowds."  
  
"Yeah. You know. Because everyone's excited. Madge was telling me that she can't wait to hear about how Katniss Everdeen fell in love, since she never seemed like the type."  
  
"Well, I'm sure everyone saw it."  
  
"It would still be great to hear it in her own words. That's what everyone from the Capitol is saying they want to hear about, too." His smile widens and becomes more brittle, and I realize: Snow is waiting for Katniss to make a mistake. He has Peacekeepers ready to respond to any agitation.  
  
And while I have no doubt that Katniss loves Peeta -- she's not very subtle about it -- I'm not sure _Katniss_ knows it, or knows exactly how much she irritated the Capitol when she defied the Gamemakers. She doesn't know that Seneca Crane is dead. She hasn't been dealing with Snow for two and a half decades, and for all her affected cynicism, she doesn't have the slightest idea how bad things can get, any more than I did before Snow killed my mother and my brother.  
  
My assumption that she'd do well just by loving him was premature. She's going to have to tell the story. And as far as I know, she doesn't _know_ the story.  
  
"Well," I say, "I'll make sure Caesar gets her to talk about it. You take care of Twelve, Merle. I'll get their victors back in one piece."  
  
"You do that."  
  
We pass a few more innocuous pleasantries, then hang up.  
  
I sit down heavily on my bed. Great. The rebellion needs the berries to be the center of attention, and Snow needs the romance. Katniss and Peeta will need a break from each other.  
  
I have no idea how to prioritize it, and I can't even begin to explain it to the kids.  
  
I guess I can let other people worry about the rebellion. I doubt there's any holding it back now, not really. They saw her defy the Capitol. They're not going to unsee it.  
  
I take it out of my calculations. I can think of some rebels who won't love me for that.  
  
The other two problems are the Capitol and the kids. If I told them to stay together forever, right now, I think they'd do it. I also think that everything they've gone through is going to turn this twisted fairy tale they spun into poison. Neither of them has any idea what the truth is. They need to be separated long enough to understand whatever is there between them. But if they're separated, then the Capitol will accuse them of treason.  
  
I have to find a way to give them some distance and still tell them to keep the image up in public, and I can be pretty sure that we're going to be watched too closely to explain it. I can't even let them speculate on it with each other in any place likely to be bugged. I don't think Snow will arrest them _today_ , not with the mob outside, but when it all dies down, he'll use anything they say as evidence. He might even use it to turn the audience against them, if they say something that makes the strategy clear enough.   
  
I try to reach Caesar, to get him to drive the public appearance this afternoon, but he's already in the studio, and they won't put me through.  
  
I have to talk to Katniss. Peeta's committed to the idea, and I'm reasonably sure he knows she's fallen in love with him, so he'll play it right anyway. I'm suddenly terrified that she won't.  
  
I get dressed quickly and put my hair in some kind of order, then go downstairs, hoping I can beat them there. I don't. They've put up another false wall under Caesar's outdoor stage. Portia is finishing Peeta's prep in the usual area -- the area where everything is sure to be stable -- and he's working on ways to make himself stay upright when the platform puts him out on the stage. On the other side of it, I see Katniss standing beside her own plate. Cinna makes a few final adjustments, then he and the preps make a run for their dressing rooms.  
  
The crowd noise is a constant undertone, like a running fountain. I can hope here that it might cover anything I say, as long as I don't say it loudly. It will have to look natural, too.  
  
I go to her and touch her shoulder.  
  
She jumps.  
  
"Easy," I tell her. "Just me. Let's have a look at you." She steps back and turns once. Cinna has rolled back her age several years. She looks about thirteen in a sweet yellow dress, with a matching ribbon in her hair. He even has her in flat shoes. I wonder if he had a long and meaningful conversation with Finnick at some point. "Good enough," I say.  
  
She doesn't miss the fact that I'm keyed up. "But what?"  
  
I look around the room. There's no place for a spy to hide. There are two cameras hidden high up in the rafters, but I don't see evidence of anything else. "But nothing," I say. "How about a hug for luck?"  
  
She frowns, obviously confused by this, but steps into my arms willingly enough. I turn her face away from the cameras I've spotted. I lock my hands at the small of her back so she can't move away and whisper in her ear, "Listen up, you're in trouble. Word is, the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem."  
  
She stiffens up in my embrace for a moment, but catches on quickly. She forces a laugh for the cameras and says, "So, what?"  
  
"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." It's as plain as it can be. There's more to it, of course, but there's no way to tell her now. She'll get it from here. I pull away and straighten her hairband, as if I've just been giving her tips on how to appear on Caesar's stage. "Got it, sweetheart?"  
  
"Got it," she says. "Did you tell Peeta?"  
  
I shake my head. "Don't have to. He's already there."  
  
She straightens my bow-tie. I resist a completely alien urge to hug her again. "But you think I'm not?" she asks.   
  
I'm not sure I could answer that even if we had all the time and freedom in the world, so I just say, "Since when does it matter what I think? Better take our places." I move her over to the tube. I'd forgotten how much this resembled the tubes going up into the arena. She doesn't seem to be thinking about it, and it's better not to remind her. "This is your night, sweetheart," I tell her. "Enjoy it."  
  
The last is impossible. I know it is. But she'd best seem like it.  
  
I kiss her forehead. I don't know why. She visibly relaxes when I do.  
  
I head for the dressing rooms, where the rest of the team is waiting. We go up one at a time. The preps get as big a round of applause as some victors I've seen over the years. Effie gets huge cheers, which she has earned for every single year she's put up with me. I'm guessing she knows something is off-kilter, because when I see her on the screen, she's playing the audience beautifully, throwing kisses like Katniss did during the parade and putting her hands over her heart.  
  
Portia and Cinna go up next, and they also get well-deserved applause.  
  
By the time I go up, I assume that the audience is so impatient to see Katniss that all they'll give me is a cursory welcome, but as soon as I appear, the whole crowd explodes in cheers. They stomp their feet and holler and call my name. I don't remember them being this loud when I _was_ the victor.  
  
I see President Snow's face on the giant screen. He's smiling coldly, but when he catches me looking, he looks back at me through the cameras. It's one thing for them to cheer besotted kids. It's another for them to cheer _me_ , and I know it. I hold up my hands and gesture toward the tubes that will bring the kids up, and raise my hand to ask them to cheer for Katniss and Peeta instead.  
  
They do.  
  
As the volume rises, the lights on the tubes go on, and a moment later, there is a deafening roar as the kids appear on stage.  
  
Katniss nearly runs across to Peeta. He loses his balance and lurches backward, but it looks natural enough, given the circumstances. They catch each other and he kisses her. On the screen (which I assume is not showing on the national broadcast), Snow looks on with distaste. It doesn't matter. The audience is going wild and paying no attention whatsoever to Coriolanus Snow.  
  
I have no idea how long Caesar lets this go before he taps Peeta's shoulder. Peeta playfully shoves him away, getting a huge laugh from the audience (and from Caesar himself). Caesar finally comes to me and asks me to do the honors.  
  
I put a hand on each of their heads and lead them to the little love seat they've installed in place of the Victor's Throne. I think it's from Caesar's little studio. I'm glad. That ivory-inlaid black chair is uncomfortable, and it's depressing. Katniss sits beside Peeta, close enough to touch, but it still looks a little forced. I raise an eyebrow at her. She kicks her shoes off, puts her head on Peeta's shoulder, and slips her arms around him. He puts an arm over her shoulders.  
  
Caesar smiles. "Well," he says, "I guess she noticed him."  
  
The audience laughs and calls out to the kids, expressing their adoration.  
  
Caesar makes a few more fond jokes, but the real item on the agenda today is the highlight reel. Three hours of reliving the Games. Three hours of horror. I envy the kids, no matter how much trouble they're in. They can hold onto each other. I was alone in that hellish chair.  
  
Now, I watch it all again, with their careful framing of the story. As always, they skip the filler material, and stay in the arena. They're playing Katniss as a brave hero (though a Capitol-loyal one of course; her stunt with Rue and the flowers is not shown), and Peeta as her clever, loving assistant, right up until she finds out he can live. The moment she calls his name, the narrative shifts and makes them equal, playing the love story as hard as they can. When the moment of the berries comes, it seems like a natural outgrowth of it, with no other possible connotations.  
  
They don't show the staged greetings at all. They end with the best shot they could choose -- Katniss flinging herself wildly at the window of the operating room, screaming for Peeta. They show nothing of the recovery.  
  
In fact, they don't show _me_ at all. As far as history will record it, Katniss and Peeta have no mentor.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch's plan to give Katniss and Peeta breathing room works a little too well after they leave the Capitol, and three of them settle into an uneasy existence together.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**  
After the highlights, Snow manages to top even his usual levels of pettiness. Instead of awarding two victors' crowns -- which would have been cheaper and easier -- he has had his props department re-engineer a single one so that it slides into two halves. He gives each of the kids _half_ of a single victory.  
  
Granted, my crown isn't exactly my most prized possession. I got it twenty-four years ago, and that night was the first and last time I wore it. I think it's somewhere in my attic, with Mimi's statue and all of my plaques. Or maybe the basement. I honestly don't know. I don't _think_ I ever traded it for booze. It's not made of good metal, so I wouldn't be able to get much for it.  
  
But still -- it's mine. Snow can't even grant Katniss and Peeta that much dignity.  
  
I don't comment on it. I'm pretty sure they'd both say that they don't need or want crowns, anyway.  
  
The victory banquet goes on forever. Sponsors are lined up to get pictures with the kids. Most of them are decent people, though very few of the Daughters are in attendance. Aquila, as promised, has disappeared. Ulpia Jakes claims she's gone to the District One resort. I don't imagine that she'll come back. District One itself isn't rebellious, but it is high in the mountains, surrounded by wilderness. It's possible to get lost there, and I'm guessing that Aquila has her ways of doing so. Having gotten to know her, I imagine her scheming to build a whole new civilization around a few caves, a bird or two, and maybe a discreet ally. It's a silly idea, but I like it.  
  
Katniss spends the evening clinging to Peeta's hand. They're mostly sitting at the banquet table, so his leg doesn't seem to bother him too much. She doesn't let him out of her sight. Once or twice, she catches my eye, and I try to smile for her. She's laughing and thanking sponsors -- again, the friendly girl from the chariot -- but I can see that she's high-strung and needs reassurance.  
  
It's nearly dawn by the time the last partiers leave, and we're allowed to go back to the apartment. I see Katniss leaning in to talk to Peeta, almost certainly preparing to plan out a performance for Caesar's show, which I can't let her do. Not here. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to break the illusion for both of them -- they deserve a chance to be honest with each other and see each other as they are -- but I can't afford to do it now, not in a bugged Capitol apartment, and not when I need them unscripted for Caesar tomorrow. Katniss can't follow a script to save her life, and if Peeta rejects her, even a little bit, she'll break.  
  
I send him off with Portia immediately to work on the vital question of tomorrow's shoes, and send her to her room to sleep.  
  
Effie is sitting on the couch, rubbing her feet. She's pretty perky for four-thirty in the morning, and, looking at her closely, I'm angry -- but not entirely surprised -- to see the glittery, too-wide-open look in her eyes that says she's back on her "medication."  
  
"Do you even _need_ to sleep?" I ask her.  
  
She giggles. "Oh, I've got another few good hours to get you ready for Caesar."  
  
"I'm not _on_ Caesar's show, Effie. I just need to talk to him."  
  
"I _know_. Goodness, Haymitch, I'm the one who scheduled you."  
  
I consider opening up the bar out of spite, but decide to keep going. One more day. Maybe two -- they'll have cameras at another banquet when we get home the day after tomorrow. I won't drink at that one. That won't be because of Effie. That will be because when they held it for me, my mother was furious about the booze. The next morning, they'll be touring the kids' shiny new houses -- hopefully not while planning to blow up the bakery or Katniss's house on the Seam -- and I can be the drunken uncle next door. It'll embarrass Effie, if she's still capable of it, but that's sort of the point.  
  
I go to my room without saying goodnight. Somewhere in the darkness, I hear the doors lock. I guess the Capitol doesn't want its shiny new victors wandering off, let alone the tarnished old one, who might go off to meet entirely inappropriate people.  
  
I fall into a thin sleep just after six, during which my mother scolds me for wanting to drink again, and my daddy defends me, and Maysilee says I should be more interested in defying Snow's plans for me than embarrassing Effie. "Snow _wants_ you to drink. You know he does. Toothless old Haymitch again." I look in a dream mirror and see an old man, bald and, as Maysilee suggested, toothless. Effie comes by, stoned out of her mind, and fixes me with a magic wand. She and Maysilee are arguing about this when my alarm wakes me at ten. I get up and dressed without much enthusiasm. The door has unlocked itself at some point while I slept.  
  
Effie, as I expected, is up and running around, though she's changed her clothes and her wig to a more daytime look. She's giving the kids another hour and a half to sleep after last night. "Heaven knows, they need the rest. They're still recovering, poor dears, and it was _quite_ a party last night. Simply _everyone_ was there."  
  
"Aquila Grant wasn't."  
  
"Oh, I heard she went to the spa in District One." She inspects me. "Let me do something with your hair, Haymitch. They might catch you on camera."  
  
"They're not trying to catch me on camera, and even if they do, I look better than I usually do."  
  
"Still, maybe just a little styling…" She runs her fingers lightly through my hair, smoothing a curl or two down.   
  
I take her wrist and gently move her hand away. "Effie, stop. I'm just going to do pre-interview prep with Caesar. He's probably not put together for it, either."  
  
"Do you want me to go with you?"  
  
"No. Get the kids to eat some breakfast, then send them off with Cinna and Portia."  
  
"If you're sure…"  
  
"Yeah."   
  
The interview will be in the sitting room in the apartment, where I trained the kids for their first interviews (not that my training ended up factoring into that). I see that they've already sent up the loveseat from the stage outside, and set up vases full of red and pink roses. Caesar isn't there yet, though. I'm meeting him at his office.  
  
I go to the elevator, and look over my shoulder. Effie is still standing with her hand up, looking vaguely confused. I turn back to the door and don't turn around until I'm inside and it shuts behind me.  
  
I don't think about much as I head over to the media headquarters. Caesar has another temporary secretary; he hasn't kept one for long since Peri disappeared with her husband, Martius Snow. This one is a boy in a powder blue wig who makes a great ceremony of showing me to the single chair in the waiting room while he informs Mr. Flickerman of my arrival… despite Caesar being on the way, perfectly visible through a glass wall. He spots me, gestures at me to come back, and rolls his eyes when the secretary's back is turned.  
  
"He's trying a little too hard to impress," he explains, leading me into his inner office and closing the door. "He's a good boy, but I don't think he'll work out. They never do." He smiles. "How are our victors?"  
  
"They're tired. Of course. A little overwhelmed."  
  
"That's the same as every year."  
  
"I'm surprised they don't have you at the banquet."  
  
He laughs. "How could I make it all look spontaneous if I'd spent all night on television trying to get a laugh out of Peeta?"  
  
"Right. Of course. Totally unscripted."  
  
He sits down behind his desk. "I've had a few conversations with the president lately. He seems very interested in the romance, which seems incongruous, given Coriolanus."  
  
"Well, I'm sure he just wants to make absolutely sure that the audience gets all the romance it can stand."  
  
"Understood." He taps a pen on the desk for a few seconds and glances around. Given how circumspect he's being, I'm guessing he's decided he's bugged. Maybe Snow's even _told_ him that he's bugged; I have no idea how that relationship works. "How would you say the best way is to get them talking?"  
  
"Well, you already know how to get Peeta talking -- "  
  
He grins. "Give him a microphone and let him be?"  
  
"Pretty much." I laugh. "But I think the _audience_ wants to hear Katniss, and she's not always great at telling stories. The first interview was like pulling teeth until Cinna told her to pretend she was talking to him. She's very private. And she… doesn’t always understand herself that well. And I don't think Peeta's told her about the leg yet."  
  
Caesar doesn't need further explanation, or at least I hope he doesn't. He nods, anyway. "I'll help her if she gets stuck."  
  
To my surprise, this is as far as the prep goes. We spend another half hour talking about the coverage that will happen when we get home. The banquet the first night. Then the holiday. The one they were having when Snow ordered my mother and brother killed by collapsing our old house around them.   
  
I shudder. "I was trying to forget that they'd have to do that."  
  
"Haymitch, stay sober. I'm not kidding."  
  
"Oh, come on, the cameras will be on _them._ It would round out the story from the Reaping anyway, right?"  
  
"I'm not interested in rounding out that story. Or disrespecting Rhona and Lacklen's memories."  
  
"You're just full of old names this year, aren't you?"  
  
"It's almost a quell year. I'd have had you on my mind regardless of your tributes' standing."  
  
"Right. 'Cause that's quite a story."  
  
"Because I'm worried about you."  
  
"I'm okay."  
  
"And no one will be peeling you off the ground at the end of the Seam on the district holiday? Or Parcel Day?"  
  
"I don't go down there," I say. I know it doesn’t answer the question he's really asking, but I don't care.  
  
After I finish up with Caesar, I have a meeting with Plutarch in his bug-free office. Fulvia joins us, supposedly with a full prospectus on how to deal with me during next year's Quell. We all playact for the camera in the ceiling that this is what we're talking about, and at least a few of the papers Fulvia hands me really do have something to do with it. I ask Plutarch point blank if there's going to _be_ a Quell, and he won't give me a straight answer. "We need to exercise _patience_ , Haymitch," he says. "Our friends aren't yet sure of us."  
  
When we leave, we all make a show of talking about next year, and Plutarch acts cross with me for not showing enough enthusiasm, since, as the sole Gamemaker who was actually involved in my Games -- he was an apprentice and all around gopher -- he feels that he should be directing my every move. I'm actually not sure whether or not he's acting.  
  
I get back to the apartment just as the interview is starting. Caesar manages to be fairly gentle in letting Katniss know about Peeta's leg -- though she goes quiet and buries herself against Peeta's chest for a few minutes while he talks about his recovery and thanks the doctors -- and gets her through a halting description about when she realized she was in love (he picks the moment most of Panem would pick: when she called out to him from the tree). He coaxes her into telling Snow's preferred version of events with the berries. It's not going to go into the records of best post-Games interviews, but she manages to pull it off.  
  
There's not much to gather in their rooms, though Cinna's returned the mockingjay pin, and our train is scheduled immediately. To my surprise, Effie comes with us. There've been a few escorts who've gone back over the last twenty-four years, I guess, but I don't think it's common. She got word while I was with Plutarch. Someone must think I need a chaperone. I narrow my list of suspects to Caesar Flickerman.  
  
While Katniss goes to wash off her make-up on the train -- she takes a very long time at it -- I talk to Peeta and Effie in the dining car. Apparently, he found the time to ask Caesar to bring up the subject of his leg while they were setting up the lights. "I realized I couldn't just keep pretending," he says. "She had to know. I guess it freaked her out a little." He looks away, shamefaced. "Not exactly the dashing hero, I guess."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
He shrugs and changes the subject, asking how long Effie will be staying, and if she'll let him bake her something.  
  
Katniss comes out after a while, bare-faced and with her hair back in its customary braid. She looks weirdly stiff and awkward. Peeta is off inside his head somewhere as well. I think they're both running out of energy. They need a break from each other. Just a few more days.  
  
We stop for fuel late in the afternoon. I judge the station to be somewhere near District Nine, judging by the unending, flat horizon, marked by long grass and wildflowers beyond the bushes planted to keep the ground under the tracks stable. The kids are allowed off the train (under heavy guard), and they walk hand in hand along the train tracks. It would seem romantic, but I can see the tense set of Katniss's shoulders even from here, and the slow, deliberate stride that Peeta is using to hide the pain in his leg.  
  
They're apparently straying too far, because one of the guards on the train starts out after them.  
  
"Oh, don't ruin it!" Effie tells him. "It's a beautiful shot!"  
  
"If they go too far, they'll delay the schedule."  
  
"I'll get them," I say. "May as well start playing the nosy neighbor."  
  
I head out the back before he can contradict me. There's always at least a little bit of a thrill, walking around freely in the out-districts, even if the freedom is an illusion.  
  
As I catch up to them, Peeta bends down and picks some flowers for Katniss. She takes them with a strained smile, and he frowns, glancing quickly down at his leg. I can't hear what they're saying over the engines, but I speed up a little bit. I don't want them giving in to their weariness with this quite yet.  
  
I put my hand on Katniss's back. I speak softly, even though it's unlikely anyone can hear us. "Great job, you two," I say. "Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I nod back at the train, and make a motion with my hand to suggest we just give the lovebirds a little time.  
  
I smile at them. I hope they'll get a little bit of energy back into it.  
  
This turns out to be a bad plan. I go back to the train only a minute ahead of them, promising that they're on the way.  
  
Unfortunately, before they move, I see Peeta take an uncertain step back. Katniss says something to him and reaches for him, but drops her hand when he doesn't take it.  
  
He comes back to the train ahead of her, brushing by me without saying anything, and Katniss, after looking in a confused way at the flowers he gave her, comes after. He goes straight to his sleeping car.   
  
_She told him._  
  
I realize it even as I chastise myself. I meant to let them know that they didn't need to play out a romance movie anymore. I meant that they could be themselves.  
  
But Katniss's version of herself apparently decided that he needed to be told she was putting on a show.  
  
I wanted them to have breathing room. I didn't want her to break his heart, and I especially don't want them estranged in Twelve.  
  
She stays up with Effie and me, but spends most of the evening looking wistfully at his closed door. She goes to sleep early.  
  
"This won't do," Effie says. "What on Earth did you say to them?"  
  
"Maybe something I can fix," I say.  
  
I go to Peeta's room. He doesn’t want to let me in, but I lie and tell him that I can pick the lock. He opens the door.  
  
He's stripped down to his underwear, but he's thrown on a bathrobe. There's a bottle of bourbon on the desk, but it's not opened. I throw it out the window into the slipstream.  
  
He shrugs. "I already decided not to drink. It's a dumb thing to do."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He taps his ear and points around the room. I nod -- it's definitely bugged. He grimaces. "She said she was glad we'd get separate houses," he lies. "I guess I figured we'd move in together."  
  
"Well, it's a little soon." I sit down at the desk. "Katniss probably just wants a chance to figure out her own house."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Come on, it's just a tiff. Everyone has them. The audience won't care, though."  
  
He glares at me. "The audience."  
  
"It can be a tough crowd."  
  
He goes over to the bed, and I can see that his limp is getting worse. He sits down and stares at his foot. "Yeah, it can. I was limping again. I thought I had it."  
  
"You think she… wants her own house because you're _limping_?"  
  
"No. Of course not."   
  
Peeta is usually a good liar -- the best I've ever worked with, and that's going a distance -- but he barely commits to this one. It's pointless to argue with him, too. He's tired, he's upset, and he's overreacting, imputing motives to Katniss that I doubt have even occurred to her.  
  
"Just give them a good show for a couple of days," I tell him.  
  
He nods, but he doesn't come out of his car until the train is pulling into District Twelve. He speaks softly to Katniss, then puts on his old smile and takes her hand. It looks like she's holding on for dear life, which works well enough on camera. Since they haven't assigned us a new Head Peacekeeper who needs to give speeches, the greeting time is short and mostly informal.  
  
Katniss actually seems reluctant to let go of him when Ruth steps forward and declares that she's too young for a serious boyfriend -- all part of the brilliant plan to give them "space," which goes over about as well as my part of it did. Peeta makes a great show of stepping away, and pretends not to see her reach out to him. She makes herself smile and throw herself into her mother's arms. She's much more enthusiastic about seeing her sister, but somewhat puzzled about the group of "cousins" she's gained. Gale Hawthorne looks likely to blow his cover, so I steer the whole crew away to get set up for the banquet.   
  
The banquet is always fairly small. Capitol liaisons, the mayor and his family, the media, and the mine officials. The Peacekeepers are also generally invited, though some have to remain on duty. Obviously, they've pulled in baked goods from the Capitol, along with the food, but Danny stubbornly made about a dozen different pastries that Peeta likes. He and Ruth and Mir are all making a good show of getting along. Madge Undersee comes over to sit with Katniss, and grins broadly at the mockingjay pin. She plays the piano late in the evening.   
  
Mir is in front of the cameras, so she behaves perfectly, doting on Peeta at every opportunity. She tries to dote on Katniss, but Katniss definitively rebuffs her. Instead of making a scene, she wisely withdraws.  
  
Danny can't seem to stay more than a few feet away from Peeta, except when he thanks me. He wants to do a big toast to tell all of Panem what a great and trustworthy friend I am, or some nonsense like that, but I talk him out of it.  
  
"You saved him, Haymitch."  
  
"I did what I could," I say. "It's Katniss who saved him."  
  
Peeta's brothers can't stay for long, and I don't get to talk to them. Apparently, the Capitol didn't find them terribly interesting, because the production crew doesn't even ask them to stay. One of them tries to jolly Peeta into doing something, but I can't hear what. I just see Peeta shake his head.  
  
The only person who seems unequivocally happy is Primrose Everdeen, who dances with Peeta's brothers and even dances by herself for a little while, much to the delight of the viewing audience. ("I just love her!" a Capitol woman sighs on the live feed. Prim laughs and blows kisses in return, thanking everyone for sending her sister back to her.)  
  
I'm afraid that they're planning to put Katniss and Peeta in adjoining houses, or inflict some other kind of domestic horror on them, but at the end of the evening, the houses are assigned normally. Peeta will live in the house directly to my right. Katniss will be two doors down to the left. The cameras follow us out so that I can point out the green to them (as if it's not completely obvious) and see them to their doors.   
  
Effie and I close out the evening standing in front of my house. She's leaning on me, probably to avoid tipping over in the high heels she's got on, which have never worked particularly well in District Twelve. She tells the audience that she and they will both have to wait for tomorrow to get a peek. "They've had a very long day!" she says. "They deserve a little bit of rest in their well-earned new homes."  
  
Ruth and Primrose move in with Katniss. The Mellarks all leave before curfew -- Peeta's brothers are too old to live in Victors' Village with him, and he tells his parents that they need to keep the bakery open. He can take care of himself. Danny hugs him goodnight. Mir starts to, but something in Peeta's posture must warn her not to push it, because she settles for squeezing his arm and smiling angelically. He returns the gesture, then disappears into the house. Danny waves to me as he's driven away. I wave back.  
  
Effie remains at my side, leaning on me, until the cameras are gone. She sighs finally. "They're all right, aren't they?" she asks. "They're safe now."  
  
"As safe as any of us."  
  
She turns to me, her eyes vague and glassy. I don't know if it's medication or lack of sleep. "Are _you_ safe, Haymitch?"  
  
"Sure. Completely."  
  
"You're a terrible liar."  
  
"No, I'm not." I turn her around to look at me. "I'm okay, Effie. Cameras on me everywhere." We look at each other a little bit too long. I'm very aware that I'm about ten yards from my front door, and there's not a soul who would look askance if she came in for a nightcap. Or a night. No one would care. "Do you need a ride back into town?" I ask. "I think the lighting team has a car. You better grab them before they leave."  
  
She nods. "Right. My things are at the inn."  
  
"I think Peeta's oldest brother lives there now."  
  
"Really? I'll have to talk to him," she says. She bites her lip, then leaves.  
  
I shake my head. She's probably still high, anyway. I go inside. I look at the bar. One day more. Maybe two. I'll just keep it up until the cameras leave.  
  
Someone has been in to clean, probably at the instruction of the production crew, in case they need to interview me. I pull off my shirt and throw it on the floor, just to spite them, then go to bed.  
  
They make me pick up the "mess" when they come in the next day and ask me how it will be to have neighbors. It doesn't even make the broadcast. The kids have to show off houses that they've barely had a chance to look at. Peeta does well. He says he wants to set up a painting studio in the attic, and the Gamemakers, who technically control the houses, give him permission on the spot to do the renovations. Katniss is a lost cause and so is Ruth, but luckily, Prim picks up the slack, talking about all the exciting things she's found since last night. If she gets any more popular, I may have to come up with an arena strategy for her after all. (Effie swears the reapings aren't rigged, but even if I believed her, in a Quell year, all bets will be off.)  
  
The audience is loving their visit to "rustic District Twelve," so the producers decide to spread out the festivities, putting off my drinking for another week before the victory holiday. I'm getting a very bad headache, and I'm grumpy with everyone, but I make it. I snap at Effie several times, but she's medicated and seems not to care. The holiday is loud and festive, and I think everyone actually enjoys it. No one's house comes down, anyway, and a teenage singer from the Capitol runs around crowing about getting Prim's autograph. Katniss and Peeta continue their charade in public, but as far as I know, they haven't even seen each other's houses.  
  
The production crews finally leave. I stay sober for a few more weeks, out of habit at this point. The kids are doing their own thing, and not having picnics with me out on the green, though they do generally stop by the house at least once a day. They don't say anything important. Katniss and I numbly watch Capitol television for several hours one day. Peeta gives my kitchen a thorough cleaning, and invites me to dinner a few times. Ruth comes by more often, worried sick about Katniss's nightmares. I don't lie or pretend that they'll pass, but I do tell her that, sooner or later, Katniss will find a way to live with them. This doesn't seem to comfort her.  
  
I try to send a message to Chaff through the bakery, but Danny tells me that they've suspended his shipping license. He says something about too much traffic coming in after the Games. "Apparently, I was 'over-shipping.' Abusing the license." He smiles bitterly.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"I'll survive."  
  
One Sunday, for no particular reason, I start drinking again. I don't drink myself into a stupor, but I do get numb. The filth in my house starts to spread. I stop showering. The kids keep coming to see me, but they're obviously disgusted with me. I tell them to leave me alone, but they don't. When Peeta misses a day, I go over to his place. He seems surprised, and tells me that he was just painting and forgot. He won't show me his paintings. He makes me dinner.   
  
Katniss starts missing Sundays, because she's hunting (though I'm somehow not supposed to know this), but she still comes in for our surreal non-conversations on the other days of the week. She seems to have decided that she owes me a debt and treats her visits as installment payments. Now and then, she'll pick something up or fix something that doesn't really need fixing. I’m annoyed when she comes, and annoyed when she leaves. If she doesn't show up, I check to see where she's been.   
  
She falls asleep while we're watching television one afternoon and wakes up screaming. I get her calmed down and feel quite accomplished as a pseudo-parental figure. She goes home, and shows up the next day with broth, which we eat while I read a book and she sharpens her knife. I don't ask about her nightmares, and she doesn't offer any information.   
  
Peeta's visits shorten considerably when I start drinking, and he makes no secret of being furious, but he does bring me fresh bread almost every morning (sometimes before I'm awake) and he sits with me patiently while I eat. He fills me in on town gossip, which he actually makes interesting. He seems to be trying harder to re-integrate into his life than any other victor I've met. He even works in the bakery now and then, though the Gamemakers won't let him do it permanently. Wouldn't want him doing anything _useful_ , after all.  
  
As far as I know, Katniss doesn't go to Peeta's house, and he doesn't go to hers, at least not very often. I know I need to do something about this. I figured it would blow over, but it seems to be deepening. I can't think of what to do, though. Even sober, I'm no one's idea of a matchmaker.  
  
The rains start that fall around mid-September, and they're still constant and miserable at the end of the month, on the day I get the idea to find my victor's crown.  
  
I don't know what really put the thought in my head. I've seen both of the kids' half-crowns over the last few months (Ruth has Katniss's on the mantel; Peeta's is hanging from a coat hook in his closet), and not that day. There's no dream. Just a strange urge to hold the thing in my hands. At first, I dismiss it, but of course, I start drinking, and by the bottom of the first bottle, I'm up in the attic, pawing through boxes of useless old junk. Most of it doesn't even have sentimental value. The things that mean anything are mostly downstairs (though I've carefully hidden my parents' quilt, in case Snow takes it in _his_ mind to destroy something important). Old decorations, hundreds of empty-headed paperback books from the Capitol, broken appliances, clothes that no longer fit, and of course, my Games memorabilia. I finally find a cracked old trunk under a pile of old jackets, beside of the pile of plaques from my Victory Tour. I pop the latch.  
  
There's not a lot in here, and it's not all from my own Games. I have a few presents that sponsors have given me over the years, the chess set I tried to make from coal slag once (it was an abysmal failure), and a highly forbidden, off-color poster of the Gamemakers that went around during the sixty-eighth Games. I also have a few pieces of jewelry that Gia Pepper accidentally left when she stayed with me, and a wig Effie left at the inn one year and never asked for. I don't know why I kept any of these things.  
  
My crown has settled to the bottom of the box. It's been covered up, so it's not dusty, and the metal is strong. It hasn't bent out of shape. I take it out. I don't put it on. I just sit down on the pile of plaques and look at it. Now that I have it, I don't know what I wanted it for. The boy whose head this was placed on is long gone.  
  
I don't let go of it. Evening is coming in, and shadows are stretching across my attic, bleeding through the mess like phantoms, reaching for me. I catch sight of Mimi Meadowbrook's statue, the little boy dancing in the rain. I can still make out the word "Reaped." I don't know, if I were to show it to anyone else, if they'd see. But _I_ see it. I'll always see it. I remember staring at it downstairs on the day it came to me, a scream building up in the back of my throat. It was fury and horror then. Now, it's just an emptiness that I could name if I wanted to, but there's no real point to it, so I don't. When I'm sober, I'll talk myself out of it, anyway.  
  
I reach out to touch the statue, and close my eyes.  
  
Something thumps downstairs.  
  
"Haymitch?"  
  
I open my eyes, but I don't answer.  
  
"Where are you?" She doesn't sound worried or angry. She's just coming to make a payment on her perceived debt. We'll most likely pass a few awkward words and sit around in the same room for a while, thinking our own thoughts until she decides to go back to her place. "Are you home?"  
  
"I'm here!" I call. "I'll be right down, sweetheart."  
  
I take a deep breath and hang my crown on one of the statue's upturned hands, then get up and head downstairs.

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Made it full circle! I'm going to start editing the older stories (in the "Narrow Path") series to fit with the back story. I'll move them into this series as I finish.


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